A Gallery of Time
by SerenLyall
Summary: A 30 Day Headcanon Challenge primarily regarding Elrond - his life, his love, his family. From the beginning of his life, even unto the end after the sea has called him home, here are a few snapshots of his life and those in it. Celebrian, Elladan, Elrohir, Arwen, Aragorn, Elros, Gil-galad, Glorfindel, Erestor, Earendil, and Elwing, among others, will all make an appearance.
1. Day 1 - Erestor

**Disclaimer:** Lord of the Rings is not mine, nor are any of the characters herein. Please do not sue, for you shall get absolutely nothing from it. Everything belongs to its respective owners.

**Rating/Warnings:** Teen. Rated Teen for violence, romance, graphic and disturbing images.

**A/N:** This is the 30 Day Headcanon Challenge that was created by bandersnatchftw on tumblr, which I have attempted to complete. There will be a new chapter posted each day. Before anyone is upset about me doing this when I am in dire need to update some of my other WIP's, I will be working on those as well, I promise you. I am doing this mostly to cement much of my headcanon which will be necessary to write the tales of Elrond's life, which I intend to begin work on here shortly. Because of that, you will likely see bits and pieces of what I write now included among others of my tales that will eventually be written.

Because each of these chapters is entirely independent, there will be a new rating/warning before each chapter, as well as time frame. The only character that will remain a constant throughout (most) of these will be Elrond (although I cannot promise that all will include him).

I would positively love it if you leave a review, telling me what you think. I can only improve if I know what needs improving. Most importantly, however, I hope that you enjoy reading.

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**Rating:** Teen for violence

**Time frame:** 1697 of the Second Age, during the sack of Ost-in-edhil.

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**Day 1 – Something about a very minor character**

**Erestor**

Before Eregion, he had only met Elrond twice: once when the Peredhel was barely more than five years of age, running on the docks after his brother, a smudge of dirt smeared down one cheek and a wooden sword clenched in his right hand; and again many years after in Mithlond, shortly after he had been given the title of Herald. Erestor could recall seeing the Peredhel – now fully grown although still young – and stopping, carefully observing the tall, dark-haired lord curled into an armchair by the window in Ereinion Gil-galad's grand library, a book opened on his lap, his attention utterly absorbed by what he was reading. In that moment, Erestor could remember wondering at Gil-galad's wisdom in appointing such a youth and a scholar as his second-in-command and greatest general.

The next time that Erestor saw Elrond, he at first did not recognize the Peredhel, dressed in full armor that reflected the hellish glow of flame and smoke, cloak snapping behind him in the hot wind caused by fire and storm, his sword stained black with dripping Orc blood, and soot darkening his face.

(Ost-in-edhil, Eregion – S.A. 1697)

Erestor pulled up sharply, hearing the raucous war cries of Orcs as they charged down the street perpendicular to the one his feet carried him down. He drew back, hugging the satchel filled with valuable books and papers rescued from the Great Library to his chest as he pressed himself into the shadows that lined the street. He held his breath as the Orcs passed, hoping that they would not catch his scent over the stench of billowing smoke and spilled blood.

The Orcs moved on, their heavy, booted feet pounding the cobblestones as they charged on. Erestor closed his eyes for just an instant, allowing his head to fall back against the timbers of the building behind him in relief, and sought to still his trembling. But no, this was no time to give in to weakness now. He was nearing the edge of the city – his only hope for escape.

Taking a deep breath – or as deep of a breath as he could in the smoke-laden air – Erestor slipped out of the shadows and crept on silent feet toward the conjunction of the roads. He glanced either way to ensure that there was no one coming toward him from either direction. Seeing no one, he took off in a run to the left, taking the way that the Orcs had just come from.

Distant screams drifted from adjacent streets and alleys on the paths of the air, the wretched cries both hideous and painful to listen to. Erestor shut his ears to the sounds of Elves dying and Orcs reveling, trying desperately to block out the horrifying sounds. For just a moment, he thought that he could hear the clang of metal as someone fought, but almost as soon as the sound had come it was gone, lost amid the roar of the flames that were devouring the city.

The grunts and howls of another Orc pack exploded from the mouth of a street just to Erestor's right. He skidded to a halt. Glancing sideways, he only just caught a glimpse of shadows moving, and then came the gleam of yellow eyes and the glitter of firelight on sword and ax. Then the Orcs were upon him, shouting and rushing forward with weapons upraised.

Turning, Erestor fled, grappling for the short sword that hung at his belt as a last resort – he was a scholar, not a warrior, and although he had learned how to wield the short but sturdy weapon, he knew that he would never be able to fend off more than one or two Orcs. There were far more than that amongst the pack now closing in on his heels. Even so, he wrenched it from its sheath, glancing once over his shoulder to see the Orcs still behind him, bellowing as they gave chase.

Still holding the satchel close, Erestor turned sharply down a side street, his mind frantically attempting to find a way out of this situation. Under no circumstances could he allow the Orcs to get their clawed hands on the papers and books that he held. Unlooping the strap from his shoulder he cradled the bag in the crook of his elbow and tightened his grip. If all else failed, he decided, he would throw the satchel into the fire where the papers would be lost to all for forever.

A brick wall loomed up out of the smoke and flickering shadows without warning, causing Erestor to backpedal frantically, arms flinging out to the side to balance himself. Although he managed to keep his hold on the hilt of his sword, the satchel tumbled to the cobblestones beneath Erestor's feet.

The Orcs were coming up behind him, snarling and laughing as they realized that the Elf before them was trapped. Erestor whirled, kicking the satchel into the shadows at the base of the wall where he hoped that the flames would reach ere long – already they were leaping high overhead, devouring the roofs of the buildings to either side of him.

"Lookit the lil' Elf trying te get away," one of the Orcs at the front leered, brandishing his notched blade.

One of the first Orc's companions chortled unpleasantly, drawing a wickedly curved knife from his belt and sniffing at the stained blade. "I'm gonna enjoy guttin' you, Elf," he sneered, a tongue flickering out to taste the dried blood staining the metal.

"Yer gonna squeal like a stuck pig," a third Orc laughed, advancing threatening.

Erestor struck without warning, lashing at the third Orc's face with his short sword. The Orc staggered back, screaming as the honed edge bit into his flesh, skating across his right eye and down across his nose and cheek. Black blood spurted out of the cut, gushing down the Orc's face and neck, filling his mouth.

"Stay back," Erestor warned, lifting his left hand to join his right on the hilt. He took half a step backwards, bracing his feet, preparing for an attack. "Stay back, or I will run you through."

The Orcs laughed at that. "Dog," one called, "thinks 'e can bite back."

"We'll kick 'im into de wall."

"Break 'is bones," another cried.

Erestor tightened his hold, his palms sweating. "Come then," he cried, fighting to steady his nerves. "What is it that you wait for?"

The Orcs ceased their jeering, and pressed in closer. The largest spat a word in its dark tongue, the foul command hanging in the heavy air. With that the Orcs attacked.

Erestor was driven back by the first assault, the fury of the blows battering him back as he frantically blocked the scything swords and axes aimed at his head, his chest, his face. He turned away, ducking beneath a wild blow, and then stood, ramming his short sword into the chest of the nearest Orc. The beast fell back with a pained scream, swinging at Erestor even as he collapsed to the ground and lay still. As he fell, Erestor tugged back on his sword, only just managing to wrench it free of the corpse.

The Orcs swarmed forward with shouts of fury, redoubling their attack. Erestor was driven back another step, then another. He swung wildly to his left and he felt his sword connect, biting into flesh and sinew. He hit bone and the blade stopped, his blow not having enough force to break through. Hurriedly, Erestor pulled the sword free of the Orc's neck. The Orc fell without a sound, collapsing to the cobblestones in a boneless heap.

A sudden explosion of pain in his right shoulder sent Erestor staggering backwards. He felt the warmth of blood pouring down his arm and his chest an instant later, drenching his tunic. His back hit the wall and for a moment he could not move, struggling to draw in breath as his body fought to cope with the pain blossoming in his shoulder and trickling down through his chest and arm.

"Lookit 'im, stuck like a bug," one of the smaller of the Orcs chortled, pushing his way through to the front of the pack. The other Orcs laughed, and advanced slowly on the all but helpless Elf sagging against the wall, a broken spear embedded in his right shoulder.

The largest of the Orcs, likely the leader of the pack, stepped forward, lifting a heavy scimitar. "Beg fer yer life," the Orc hissed, lowering the scimitar's blade to brush Erestor's throat.

Erestor could feel his satchel pressing into the backs of his legs, could feel the blood soaking his tunic. He could hear the crackle and roar of the flames as they licked lower and lower, devouring all that it could bite into. He could hear the keen of the wind as it howled through the streets. He could smell the stench of putrid flesh and rotten breath, the sour bite of smoke and searing flesh.

"May the light of Gil-estel burn your flesh and sear your eyes," Erestor whispered scathingly, a wild, fey light flaring in his unsettling, storm grey eyes.

The Orc roared in fury, recoiling, and swung back the scimitar, preparing for the killing blow. Erestor tensed, ready, waiting.

The scream of a charging warhorse and the pounding clatter of hooves on cobblestones split the air. The Orc leader, the one with the scimitar prepared to slay Erestor, faltered and whirled with his brethren, eyes widening. He turned back to glance at Erestor, and then once more lifted his scimitar, what looked like panic and insanity flaring in his yellowed eyes. Erestor found that he could not tear his eyes away from the Orc about to take his life, even to look for those who had come to his aid.

"Die, scum," the Orc spat, stabbing at Erestor's stomach.

A fountain of blood spurted into the air, droplets splattering against Erestor's chest and neck. He could not move, shock coursing through his veins. A clatter, then the sight of a horse rearing, the rider wielding a glowing sword that slashed downward. The wet _thwack_ of metal hacking through flesh and sinew, the snap of breaking bone, and then the head of the Orc leader was sliding from his severed neck to join his hand and sword on the cobblestones.

The horse, coat as dark as midnight, landed on all four hooves, turning tightly and throwing its head as its rider pulled it around. Erestor looked up, eyes wide and mind struggling to comprehend fully what he had seen – what he was seeing – and met the calm, steady, silver eyes of the Gil-galad's Herald.

"Quickly," Elrond said evenly, looking down at Erestor, "we are vacating the city. Can you walk?"

Erestor stood straight, only barely wincing at his shoulder seared with agony. "Yes my lord," he replied.

"Come then. Two of my men will ensure your safe travel out of the city."

Erestor nodded and then bent, left hand blindly searching for his satchel. He caught a glimpse of gleaming metal, and only then did he realize that he had dropped his sword at some point during the fight. He left it lying there.

Picking up the precious knapsack, Erestor cradled it against his uninjured side, and then stepped away from the wall. Two riders came forward, reigning in their dancing mounts as they drew near.

"Come, there is a group of civilians being escorted to the rally points two streets over," one of them said, offering a hand. Erestor took it, and the warrior pulled him up to the back of the saddle. Erestor grimaced as his shoulder throbbed mercilessly, the broken shards of the spear shaft and blade still embedded in his shoulder.

As the two warriors turned their mounts, Erestor glanced over his shoulder one last time. He caught just a glimpse of Elrond as the Herald whirled his mount, lifted his blade into the air in a silent command, and with a mighty cry urged his steed farther into the city. His men followed instantly, their faces grim and their weapons drawn.

And in that moment, Erestor thought that he at last understood the wisdom behind Gil-galad's choice to appoint the young Peredhel as his Herald.


	2. Day 2 - Elrond

**Rating/Warnings:** K. None

**Time frame:** 135 of the Third Age. Elladan and Elrohir are five years old.

**A/N: **I haven't slept yet, therefore this is still Day 2 of the Challenge. Seren has spoken. Anyway, I apologize in advance for any and all errors herein, for it has gone unedited seeing as how it's approximately 4 in the morning, and I must be up in about 3 hours. Good job me.

A thousand thanks to TheHouseWitch for your review! I am terribly sorry I was unable to respond as of yet, but as you may guess, I am already very late in finishing this. It truly meant a lot to hear from you (and wtraveler304 as well!). To all of you who have alerted and/or favorited, you all are spectacularly awesome, and to all who read, thank you so much! I would love it if you'd take the time to drop a review and let me know what you thought - how can I improve if I don't know what's good and what can use work on? - but really, the most important thing to me is that you enjoy reading it!

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**Day 2 – Something about a character you are hopelessly in love with**

**Elrond**

Ever since he was very young, Elrond had a tendency to disappear. He would not do so purposefully, insomuch that he did it to avoid someone, or slip away from his caretakers. Rather, it was because he liked the quiet and the solitude – the peace. He would find a tucked away corner – beneath a desk or a table, between the wall and the couch, the space between two cupboards, the fork between two tree branches, or even a small cleft in a rock – and would curl up. Most often he would have a book to keep him company, but some days he would simply listen and watch, silently observing the world around him. This habit drove Elwing frantic on more than one occasion, when she would find that her youngest child had inexplicably disappeared, and no one could find him. No one save Elros, that is.

As he grew older, Elrond disappeared less and less often. The first time he did so after being taken by Maedhros and Maglor, he received a firm cuff about the ears for having sent practically the entire camp into a frantic search for the wayward Peredhel. (It may be noted here that Elros was playing quite contentedly in the gardens not five paces away from the tree that Elrond had chosen to be his perch; and also that Elros did not tell Maglor where his brother was, as he was enjoying the general uproar far too much. He had later apologized to Elrond, and ever after that he helped to cover for his brother whenever Elrond would disappear again).

For a time, Elrond ceased his disappearing act. As Morgoth's might grew and he began to cover the land with darkness yet again, none had time for anything but that which would keep them alive for another day. Elrond and Elros trained then fought, and if Elrond did ever curl up in a tucked away corner, he was always back amongst people before they could realize he was gone.

It was only after the War of Wrath had been won and the Second Age well begun that Gil-galad began to notice that his young cousin would be absent for hours at a time. He wondered but he did not worry, or truly even care, for he knew that Elrond could care for and protect himself.

All through his days as Herald to the High King, Elrond was known to simply disappear for hours at a time. This proved to be quite the frustration for many, and it was truly only then that Elrond began to use this gift to his advantage. More than once he successfully avoided confrontation with an irate courtier or unnecessary luncheon.

After founding Imladris, Elrond rarely disappeared again. He knew his duties, and no longer could he shirk even meaningless and irritating tasks and responsibilities. What peace and quiet he had he found in his rooms or his private study, the two places that the inhabitants of the Valley knew not to disturb him unless it was important.

It seemed, however, that whatever talent or innate gift enabled Elrond to all but disappear, he passed along to his children.

(Rivendell, T.A. 135)

Elrond sat at his desk in his large study, an ancient, yellowed tome lying open before him. The pages were cracked with age, and the carefully inked Dwarven runes were so faded that they were nigh unreadable.

Elrond sighed and sat back in his chair, fighting the urge to massage his temples as a headache whispered behind his eyes. He had never enjoyed the tedious work of copying text, especially when having to translate it as well as transcribe, and the long hours spent carefully inspecting the weathered and cramped writing in the ledger were beginning to take their toll.

"I really should teach someone else how to read ancient Dwarvish," Elrond muttered as he flexed his hand, casting a baleful glance at the thick tome. He sighed then. He wouldn't, and he knew it, for a number of reasons, the least of which being that it was an extremely difficult language to master, and there was rarely any use for such knowledge.

Elrond capped his inkwell and cleaned his quill tip, then stood. The afternoon shadows were lengthening, and it was high time for him to take a break.

A knock sounded at the door just as Elrond was reaching for the latch. He opened the door, and was promptly forced to leap sideways to avoid being punched in the chest as the person at the door made to knock a second time.

A small squeak of surprise accompanied a small, petite elleth stepping back, a look of utter mortification staining her cheeks with a faint blush. "I am sorry my lord," she gasped, jerking her hand back and ducking her head to look at her feet.

Elrond stifled a sigh. Silver-white haired and exceptionally small, especially for an Elf, Adeldes was both shy and timid. Even after having lived in Imladris for well over a hundred years, she had never seemed to fully heal from the trauma of watching as her entire family was cut down by Orcs. Even small noises, if unexpected, frightened her, and she had yet to overcome her awe of Elrond, and the timid fear that he seemed to evoke – not the fear of a monster or some pending catastrophe, but the soft and subtle fear of a believer, one who knew, or at least subconsciously understood, the true greatness and power of the one she followed.

"No need to apologize, Adeldes," Elrond assured her, smiling kindly. "If anyone should apologize, it should be me."

"Oh no, my lord," she replied quickly.

Elrond stepped back, indicating that Adeldes should enter. "Am I correct in supposing that you came to speak with me?" he asked, motioning for her to take a seat in one of the large, comfortable chairs situated by the cold fireplace. "Elladan and Elrohir have not done something harmful – to themselves or to someone else – again, have they?" he asked, sounding suddenly wearied.

"No my lord, it is not that," Adeldes replied, perching on the edge of the cushion of one of the armchairs, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Elrond could not help but be reminded of a sparrow perched on the edge of a wall, watching for the cat that was prowling below. "It is, however, about your sons." What relief that had blossomed in Elrond's chest was quashed instantly.

"What have they done now?" he asked.

Adeldes hesitated, uncertainty causing her to bite her lip fretfully. Elrond watched her, his silver eyes compelling, although not unkindly, to tell him what had happened.

"I cannot seem to find Elrohir," Adeldes blurted out, and then blushed. "They have hidden from me before, but I have always been able to find them. It is just a game, you see…"

"You have no need to defend yourself to me, young one," Elrond said kindly. He could well remember him and Elros doing much the same to their caretaker when they were Elladan and Elrohir's age. "So you cannot find Elrohir?" Elrond asked. Adeldes nodded. Elrond frowned. "You found Elladan though?" It was unusual for Elladan and Elrohir to hide in separate places, leastways it had been every time that they had played such a game with their father.

Adeldes shook her head. "No, not quite," she admitted. "Elladan was not even hiding. He was playing in the nursery with his toy soldiers, just where I had left him. I asked him where Elrohir was, and he shrugged."

"I see," Elrond mused, brow furrowing. How peculiar.

"I searched everywhere for him," Adeldes hurriedly assured Elrond. "Elladan even helped me look, trailing after and opening cupboards and the like. I did not wish to bother you, but with the Lady Celebrían gone, and…"

"It is quite all right," Elrond reassured her, holding up a hand to silence her rush of words. "I was about to take a break in any case."

Elrond stood, and Adeldes followed suit. "I left Elladan in the nursery, and bade him not to leave until you or I came for him."

"Very good," Elrond said, nodding and then opening the door to his study. He motioned for Adeldes to precede him out into the hallway, and then closed the door firmly behind them. "Now, where all have you looked?"

By the sound of it, Adeldes had quite thoroughly scoured the Main House – grand suite of rooms that belonged to Elrond and his family, the Library, the Kitchens, the Hall of Fire, the Music Hall, and the many nooks and crannies that lined the walls between each. She had even gone so far as to ask those who were in their offices if they had seen her wayward charge, knowing full well that the twins could shimmy their way into their father's councilors and captains' studies to play or hide, if they were feeling bold enough – which they often were.

Elrond led the way down the hall toward the stairs. "I know that you have already checked in the Kitchens, but I think perhaps it is as good a place as any to begin," he suggested.

"Of course, my lord," Adeldes responded, bobbing her head. "I am sorry, I am sure I was simply not looking well enough."

Elrond shook his head, fighting back a small sigh. Ai, but overly timid and insecure people were tiring to deal with over long periods of time. "Adeldes," Elrond said calmly, but steadily, halting and turning to look at the young Elf-maiden, "if you searched the Kitchens, then you searched the Kitchens. I do not in any way doubt your abilities, or your thoroughness. If I did, in any measure no matter how small, I would never allow you to care for my children." Adeldes blushed, and lowered her eyes. Elrond gently grasped her chin and forced her eyes back up to meet his. "You need not apologize to me any more, young one," he told her.

"Yes my lord," Adeldes whispered, her eyes wide with…something. Elrond found that he could not quite place his finger on what it was that filled her pale blue, almost silver eyes. It was not fright, as he had thought he might see, and neither was it surprise, although it was a bit similar to both. Elrond smiled kindly and turned away, starting down the hallway once more, mind still puzzling through what Adeldes's expression had meant.

The Kitchens were abustle with preparations for the evening meal. Cooks and serving staff hurried to and fro, bearing platters and cutting boards and bowls, cutlery and stacks of plates and bowls and baskets filled with fresh fruit. The air was filled with the succulent smells of freshly baked bread, meat sizzling in sauce, and tarts freshly pulled from the oven.

"If I was a five year old elfling, I think I would chose here to hide," Elrond commented, turning to speak to Adeldes. She smiled, albeit only slightly visibly, and then followed Elrond as he began to search.

Twenty minutes later, Elrond and Adeldes emerged from the same door that they had entered, each with a hazelnut scone in hand, but without the wayward child. They continued their search, combing the hallways, opening cabinets and lifting drapes, watching closely for any child-sized lumps or shadows.

Elrond shook his head as they finished searching the entirety of the first floor of the Main House. Adeldes stood by his side quietly, watching him as he thought.

"Let us search the Library again then," he said at last. "I doubt he is hiding in any of the offices, as you have already asked. Come then," he bade, starting up the stairs.

"If you do not mind my asking," Elrond began as they ascended the grand, sweeping flight of stairs that connected the first floor to the second, "why is it that you so enjoy watching the twins? They can be quite a handful, I know."

He had been curious for quite some time, although he had never before thought it an appropriate time to ask. He did not mean to be judgmental, and indeed that was not his intent, yet he could not help but be confused at the fact that such a timid woman, who would start at the sound of a dish falling off of the table, would wish to care for two children so rambunctious and spirited as his sons were. Yet even though Celebrían had offered her a different position twice – once when the twins were two years of age, and again just after their fourth begetting day – she had turned the Lady down, declaring that she would rather stay with the boys.

Adeldes looked down, watching her feet as she climbed the stairs, and Elrond wondered if she was going to answer him. Just as he thought that she would not, however, she spoke, although her voice was soft. "They are a handful, yes," she said, "but… I love them. They are like the little brothers I never had."

Elrond could not keep the smile from his lips as he turned to look at Adeldes. She chanced a glance up at him, and she seemed surprised to see such an emotion on the lord's face. She smiled ever so hesitantly in reply, and the unidentifiable expression was back in her eyes.

"I am glad of that," Elrond told her. "Do not let on that I told you this, but they have said before that they wish you are their sister."

"Truly?" Adeldes asked before she could stop herself.

"Aye," Elrond affirmed, chuckling quietly. "You are very dear to them."

At last, as at last he saw her smile truly for the first time, Elrond thought that he understood what it was that he was seeing in her gaze. It was not an emotion he had expected to see, but his heart soared all the more for it, for he had, in the oddest of senses, come to see Adeldes as yet another surrogate member of his family. It was joy, and it was hope – hope of a future not clouded by fear and sorrow.

Elrond blinked and then turned to smile at Adeldes again. "Come, let us find our errant elfling then."

The second floor was more sparsely decorated than the first floor, as it housed primarily offices, meeting rooms, and archives, but it still took the two searchers nearly a quarter of an hour to arrive at the doors to the Great Library.

The vast room was dimly lit. The large, arched windows that filled the far wall allowed in little light as the sun sunk low onto the horizon. Softly glowing lamps sat on oak tables and in sconces on the walls and set into the ends of bookshelves. Small nooks, nestled between adjoining shelves, or squeezed comfortably into corners were pools of shadow, couches, armchairs, and low tables bathed only in soft echoes of light.

Elrond breathed in deeply, allowing himself to simply enjoy the scent of old books, fresh parchment, and ink, mixed with oil, candlelight, and dust – a smell entirely unique to libraries, and one that he had loved since he was a child.

As the two began to hunt for the wayward child yet again – lifting pillows and cushions, peering down long aisles bathed in dusty shadow, pulling chairs away from tables and searching underneath – Elrond felt himself relax, despite the situation. He had always felt most at home in libraries in archives, ever since he was a small child.

"I can recall slipping away into the library in my father's house," Elrond began, murmuring quietly so that only Adeldes could hear him. "I would find a book and curl up into a corner to read by lamplight." He smiled wistfully at the far-distant memory. "My mother would…" Elrond trailed off, straightening from where he had been examining the underside of a large table.

Adeldes looked over at Elrond, confusion and the faintest trace of worry showing in her pale eyes. She did not speak, however, even as Elrond turned to face her.

"I know where Elrohir is," he said at last. "Or at least I know how to find him."

Without another word, Elrond hurried from the Library, Adeldes trailing after him, surprise now accompanying the confusion that had yet to abate. She did not question her lord as he hurried down the hall, however, merely followed at a trot to keep up with his long stride.

They descended a side staircase that linked the second floor of the Main House to the single-floored West Wing, where the family's rooms were located. Elrond hurried to the door leading into his and Celebrían suite, and quickly opened the door. He stood back, allowing Adeldes to enter first, and then once more took the lead as he swept down the hall toward the children's play room.

"Ada!" Elladan jumped up and ran to his father as Elrond entered. Elrond knelt and scooped his eldest son up into his arms, spinning the child around before hugging him close. The child laughed as he was spun, and then returned the embrace. "Ada, come look at what El and I did today," he urged, wriggling to be put down.

Elrond knelt, and released his child. Elladan began to run over to the far side of the room, but Elrond halted him before he could go more than a few paces. "Just a moment, Elladan," he said. "Come back please, I'd like to speak with you." Elladan turned and retraced his steps, a frown creasing his brow in confusion.

"Am I in trouble Ada?" Elladan asked as he came to stand in front of his crouching father.

Elrond shook his head. "No, I simply wanted to ask you where Elrohir is."

Elladan shrugged. "I don't know Ada," he replied. "We had been painting, but then El said he wanted to do something else. I went to get my warrior figures, and when I came back, he was gone. I haven't seen him," he said earnestly.

"I know," Elrond nodded, "but I still think that you know where he is. Think, Elladan."

"Really Ada, I don't kno-"

Elrond held up a hand, silencing Elladan's protests. "Trust me, my son," he said softly. "Now, where is Elrohir?"

Elladan furrowed his brow, a mixture of emotion dancing across his face. Anger, indignation, resentment, then shock. "He's behind the shelf," he said, pointing to a large pine shelf that was pushed against the wall in the corner. "I think he fell asleep," he added.

Elrond looked up and nodded to Adeldes, who hurried toward the indicated shelf. She did not look it, but Elrond could sense that she was skeptical. As moved the shelf slightly to the right, however, Elrond heard a sharp intake of breath, and he smiled.

"Adel?" a sleep voice mumbled from behind the shelf.

"I guess I did know," Elladan said sheepishly, drawing Elrond's attention back to himself. "I just…didn't think about it. I didn't see him though, Ada, I promise. I wasn't lying."

Elrond smiled gently at his son, and then sat, crossing his legs. He opened his arms, and Elladan climbed onto his lap, nestling against his father's chest.

"I am glad to hear that," Elrond said, "and would have been very disappointed if I thought you had been lying. But I did not think you were."

"How did I know though, Ada?" Elladan asked. He sounded truly distressed.

"Being a twin is a very special thing, Elladan," Elrond replied, looking up as Adeldes held the hand of an owlishly blinking Elrohir, leading the younger twin over to his father and brother. Elrond extended his right arm, inviting Elrohir to climb onto his lap as well. He did so without a word, clambering up and snuggling close sleepily. "There will be things that you can sense and that you will know about one another that no one else will be able to sense or know. It seems that knowing where the other is, is one such thing."

"But how, Ada?" Elladan asked insistently.

"No one knows," Elrond answered, "and I doubt we ever shall. But it was the same with me and my brother." Elladan and Elrohir shared matching grins – just like their Ada.

"I think, however," Elrond cut in before either twin could ask any more questions, "that it is nearly time for supper. Let's get washed and then go down to dinner together. How does that sound? Adeldes and I espied what looked like tarts for desert."

With whoops the two boys jumped up from their father's lap and raced out of the play room, sprinting toward the washroom. Elrond stood, smiling once more as he listened to them go.

"Thank you for helping me search, my lord," Adeldes said quietly, turning.

"Of course," Elrond replied. He laughed. "And I thank you for watching them every day. I do not think I thank you enough, for I know how tiring of a job it must be."

Adeldes merely shook her head, hands behind her back. "My lord," she called as Elrond started for the door. Elrond paused, turning back to look at her. "If I may…" Elrond nodded. "How…how did you know?" she asked hesitantly.

Elrond grinned a grin Adeldes could not remember ever seeing on her lord's face before. "As I said," he told her, "my brother and I were much the same. I would disappear for hours on end, and the only one who could find me was Elros. He could always find me, no matter where I went, and I him." His grin faltered, and there was an odd look that flickered in his silver gaze, like the pain of an old wound not fully healed. He looked away.

"We shall see you at dinner?" Elrond asked, glancing over his shoulder once more as he came to the door.

"Yes my lord," Adeldes replied quietly, bowing her head.

Elrond smiled kindly at her, bowing his head in return, and then vanished out into the hall, heading toward the washroom to ensure that his children had not decided it was an opportune time to begin a water fight.


	3. Day 3 - Glorfindel

**Rating/Warnings:** Teen. Rated teen for violence and potentially disturbing images. Maybe. It's really not that graphic.

**Time frame:** 1069 of the Second Age, approximately 68 years after Glorfindel was sent back to Middle-earth.

**A/N:** I hope you all appreciate my dedication. It is once again 4am and I have yet to sleep, and I've been seeing and hearing things since about 1:30. Wow Seren. Waaay to go. Anyway, hopefully I'll manage my time more wisely tomorrow, and so I won't have this happen again. Because this is just kind of ridiculous, I know. But yeah, anyway...

To those of you who reviewed, thank you so so so SO much! I know I still haven't replied to your reviews yet, but I'm getting there. As some of you can attest to, I am whittling down my other review replies. I'm getting there. But in the meantime, thank you so much to the wonderful TheHouseWitch, Raynagh, and Oleanne for all of your support and encouragement! To all of you favoriters/followers, my thanks as well, and I hope you are enjoying. To all of you lurkers, thank you for reading, and I hope you'll consider telling me what you think some time!

Lastly, I'm sorry for the errors herein. Again, it's 4am, and I may or may not be seeing things (which is a tendency of mine when I'm really tired. Don't worry about it). But in any case... Oh, also, the story that goes along with this prompt may one day be put into a full-length fic. Thus why I kind of just...well, you'll see I think. And if you don't, then it didn't matter, now did it? Enjoy!

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**Day 3 – Something about a character who inspires you to be a better person**

**Glorfindel**

Fierce, savage, and jealous, he would protect those who he deemed his unto his dying breath and beyond. He would not think twice about sacrificing his own life for his who Glorfindel protected, and he had been known on more than one occasion to nearly do just that. Fierce in protection, savage in retribution, and jealous in his guardianship, Glorfindel would give his life and soul to aid the one he protected.

If there was one thing that Glorfindel was known for - beyond his feat of slaying the Balrog, and being the third person in the history of the world to return from the dead - if there was one trait that Glorfindel was known for, it was his loyalty.

Yet to him, loyalty stretched beyond the physical protection - the willingness to stand for the one he guarded. It was more than following, than obeying. It was personal; a brotherhood, of sorts. True loyalty was the waiting for the other, even if you were already late for a meeting. It was standing firm when the other was weak, even if you could barely stand yourself. It was holding a light when the darkness closed in.

Loyalty - the refusal to abandon he who you follow, no matter the cost.

And if Glorfindel was anything, he was loyal.

There were few who ever gained Glorfindel's full loyalty. Turgon. Idril. Ecthelion. And then he died, protecting the only one who still lived. Loyal unto the end.

But it was not the end, for he was sent back as a messenger, a bringer of hope and good tidings that the Valar had not forsaken Middle-earth. And there, unexpectedly, he found one more who he gave his loyalty.

He had known that Eärendil had had sons, had heard the name of Elros who chose the path of Mortality, of Elrond who had chosen the life of the Eldar. He had heard, and he had known. But he had not understood.

It began as an oath out of loyalty for his king. He had sworn to protect the children of Turgon, and so he would. But then, as time passed and the months bled into years, he began to realize that his oath now meant more than a duty to a king long dead, that his loyalty was not to a memory.

His loyalty now belonged to another, fully and unwaveringly, until the end of time.

(Beneath the Blue Mountains, Eriador, S.A. 1069)

"'It's just a small Goblin Camp,' _he_ said. 'You'll be fine,' _he_ said." Glorfindel cut the Orc down as it attempted to drop on him from the ceiling above, mouth open in a shrieking scream. Whirling, Glorfindel slashed a second Orc's chest open, sending the beast staggering back with a gurgle, hands pressed to the gushing split in his skin. "If this is a small Goblin Camp, Ereinion," the golden-haired warrior grunted as he decapitated a third Orc, "I'd _hate_ to see what you think a large one is."

Reports had come to Mithlond of a number of Orc raids in the southern region of the Blue Mountains. There had been little cause for great concern, for the events seemed to be rather isolated, and the packs never larger than thirty at a time. Knowing that such problems had a tendency to grow – and he did not wish to leave any of his subjects threatened, or any of his realm tainted by evil – Gil-galad had sent Elrond to hunt down the Orcs and dispose of them. Naturally, Glorfindel had accompanied him, along with Elrond's company.

Everything had seemed normal at first. They encountered a small Orc pack – no more than twenty members strong – and had easily dealt with the weak, ill-equipped foragers. They then had tracked the pack back the way they had come, and had found the small opening to a cave system.

That was when things had begun to go wrong.

Three of their number were dead before the alarm could be called, felled by poisoned arrows that rained down from the rocks all around. Seeing no other alternative, Elrond had ordered the troop into the cave, which would provide both shelter and a bottleneck that would channel the Orcs to a manageable attack force. It was a wise plan, and the likely the best option, given the circumstances.

But then, with a grinding crack and a showering of dust from the cracked ceiling, a massive door in the side of the cave began to swing open, and a swarm of Orcs had poured forth, jeering and chittering. Again, Elrond did the only thing that he could, given the situation – he ordered his troop back, farther into the caves. It was that or be overrun by the swarm of slavering beasts.

Their rations lasted for four days – four grueling, painful, treacherous days – in which the troop was lost to the darkness of the caves, haunted and hunted at every step by the Orcs.

At last, runners returned saying that they had discovered a passage that led to the surface. As they neared the chosen path, however, the Orcs came down at them from above, howling in anger at their prey nearly escaping.

In a last, desperate attempt to purchase his men enough time, and enough of a chance to make it to the surface, Elrond had pulled the foolish hero, and had cut through their ranks, redirecting much of the legion's attention to himself, and away from his men. And then he had run, back into the labyrinth.

And Glorfindel had gone with. He was not about to let his charge – and his friend – escape him or do something so foolish without him so easily. So Glorfindel had followed, even as he cursed the Peredhel's stupid bravery and devotion to his men, even as they disappeared down into the bowels of the earth once more.

Which led them to now. Glorfindel ahead now, Elrond behind, cutting their way through ranks of Orcs, trying to press their way back to the mouth of the tunnel, where they would be able to escape up to the surface. Glorfindel could only pray that the others had made it already.

A sudden, pained cry from behind brought Glorfindel to a halt. He whirled just in time to watch as Elrond staggered, only just barely managing to keep his feet beneath him as an Orc wrenched its notched sword from his stomach. The Orc leered, stepping forward and lifting the blade above its head to bring it scything down into Elrond's skull.

A scream born of fury and fear tore itself unexpectedly from Glorfindel's chest, filling the narrow passage with the echoing thunder of his voice. He lunged forward, battering away the Orcs that came between him and his friend, cutting them down like dry grass before the scythe.

The Goblins shrunk back, suddenly afraid of the burning wrath that shone from the Elf that bore down upon them, gleaming, biting sword in hand. They faltered in their attack, and in that moment the wretched beasts of darkness saw the faintest traces of the light and the power of the Balrog slayer behind the dancing blue eyes and the golden hair. And they were afraid, their cowardly hearts turning away and fleeing back, back toward the comforting shadows of the deep tunnels, where they could hide from the Golden Warrior's brilliance.

Glorfindel rammed his blade through a tall, broad-shouldered Orc, sending the beast falling to the gravelly earth with nary a sound, and then at last he could see Elrond once more. For an instant he felt his blood run to cold, his body turning to ice as he beheld the sight before him, a sight of crimson blood pooling on stone, the Orc pressed against Elrond, blade just visible as it protruded from the herald's chest.

With the rasp of flesh against flesh and cloth against rock, the Orc slowly toppled, landing on the stone floor in a boneless sprawl. The wire-wrapped hilt of a finely crafted dagger was just visible embedded in the Orc's throat, the blade swallowed by the beast's flesh and blood.

Elrond slumped, his knees bending as he began to slide down the wall that he had fallen against, leaving a bloody smear in his wake. He reached up and, grasping the hilt of the crudely made sword, wrenched the blade from his left shoulder, then allowed it to fall to the earth with a clatter. He was gasping, his breath hitching and gurgling as he fought to force his lungs to expand, to take in air. He was coughing, and there was blood staining his lips, speckling his chin.

Glorfindel was by his side in an instant, heedless of the fact that the Orcs had fled but for the fact that none were there that could take advantage of Elrond in his weakened state, could take advantage of him, as he cared for Elrond.

Glorfindel caught Elrond as his legs gave out, grasping the young Herald's shoulders, before carefully lowering him to sit on the hard ground, back still against the wall. Blood left in Elrond's wake darkened the wall, gleaming sullen crimson in the ruddy torchlight.

"Hold on, Elrond," Glorfindel urged, kneeling down beside Elrond. He chanced a glance at the wounds, and he felt his stomach tighten sickeningly – they did not look good. "Hold on." He reached down and grasped one of Elrond's hands, squeezing tightly, willing his friend to look at him. Elrond looked up slowly, his agony-filled silver eyes meeting Glorfindel's. "I am going to get you out," Glorfindel said quietly but fiercely, tightening his grip still harder. "I am. But you have to agree to stay with me until then, understand?"

Elrond shook his head, and then tried to pull his hand free of Glorfindel's. "No," he panted, his voice coming out weak and strained with pain. "Go," he commanded, eyes flickering toward the passage that they hoped would lead out of this hellish labyrinth.

"Not without you," Glorfindel retorted, glaring. He quickly unbuckled his armor, awkwardly shrugging out of the plate and then slipping the chain over his head, seemingly unconscious of the great peril that such an act placed him in. He then unfastened the long undercoat, leaving him clad only in a light silk shirt with long sleeves and open laces.

"You have a chance," Elrond moaned, futilely reaching with his right hand to push against Glorfindel's shoulder, trying force him away – it was like trying to move a brick wall using only a toothpick. "Go, Glor…" Elrond coughed, and more blood speckled his lips. He groaned, fists clenching, one arm drifting toward the hole punched through his stomach although it did not touch.

"We have to get that armor off of you," Glorfindel announced, ignoring what Elrond had just said. He reached out to grasp Elrond's uninjured shoulder, and was surprised when he felt it be swatted away.

"No. I said leave me," Elrond hissed, a surprising amount of strength in his clipped words. "You do not know when the Orcs will return. Take this chance and go. I will not make it anyway." Just for an instant, the wheezing gurgle was gone out of his breath, and he sounded like his whole, hale self. But then his breathing hitched, and Glorfindel could feel a shudder run through Elrond's body.

"I am not leaving here without you," Glorfindel replied coolly. "That is the end of it. Now, we must get that armor off of you, or else you'll bleed to death before I can get you out."

Grasping Elrond's uninjured shoulder, Glorfindel moved Elrond away from the wall. The Peredhel aided Glorfindel as much as he could by using his hands and his legs to help maneuver his torso, but he groaned achingly as his body screamed in agony. It was only through sheer force of willpower that he managed to brace himself against the hard ground and keep himself upright.

With fast, well-practiced fingers, Glorfindel set about unbuckling Elrond's armor. As carefully as he could, he pulled each piece of the breastplate away, gritting his teeth as the jagged edges punched inward by the force of the sword blows were pulled free of the flesh that they had embedded themselves into.

Working quickly, Glorfindel grabbed his discarded undercoat and shredded it, not caring at the fact that it was both costly and beautifully woven. Folding two of the strips he had torn into small squares, Glorfindel pressed them against the entrance and exit wounds in Elrond's stomach and back. He moaned piteously, and Glorfindel winced, knowing he must be in excruciating agony. Next Glorfindel used the longest strip of cloth he had torn, wrapping it about Elrond's waist and tying it as tightly as he dared after ensuring that it would securely hold the other two bandages in place.

"I am almost done my friend," Glorfindel murmured, and then quickly repeated the process for Elrond's shoulder.

The sound of grating stone and hurried footfalls echoed up the passage from the bowels of the mountain just as Glorfindel was finishing tying the last knot. Glorfindel muttered a curse, glancing down the darkened passage, and then quickly took up his sword from where it had fallen to the ground as Glorfindel had caught Elrond.

"Sounds as if our time is gone," Glorfindel said. He stood, nerves thrumming, then reached down for Elrond. "Loop your arm around my shoulders," he advised, moving to Elrond's other side and grasping his right arm. He pulled it over his shoulders and then, left hand still holding to his sword, pulled Elrond to his feet.

Elrond sagged at once, his legs too weak to bear his weight. Glorfindel grunted but said nothing else, instead only shifting so that his shoulder was more firmly beneath Elrond's arm. He wrapped his left arm around Elrond's waist, careful not to cut his leg with the blade he still held, and then he carefully took a step forward.

With Glorfindel bearing the majority of his weight, Elrond found that he was able to walk, although barely. He grit his teeth, fighting the blinding fire of agony that coursed through his body, igniting his blood and burning at his flesh. He tried to breathe through the pain, to use the many techniques that he had learned through the years…but he felt as if he was drowning, drowning in liquid that filled his lungs. He was burning and he was drowning, and he was dragging Glorfindel down with him.

"Glorfindel stop," he pleaded. "Leave me," he begged, although he was unable to understand how he spoke through the feel of being suffocated. "Go, save yourself. Please."

"I am not leaving you," Glorfindel repeated, and tightened his hold. "I am _not_ leaving you here."

"I am going to die anyway," Elrond retorted. He struggled weakly, trying to push away from Glorfindel. "I can feel it. Glorfindel…I'm dying. And you can't save me."

"Watch me," Glorfindel replied furiously. "I _will_ carry you out of this hellhole, Elrond, if it is the last thing I do, even if it is your corpse. So do _not_ ask that I leave you behind again. It is simply _not_ happening. Do you understand?"

Taken aback by the furor and the bitter passion in Glorfindel's voice, Elrond at last nodded. He did not speak, but he did not need to, for Glorfindel could feel his acceptance, could feel it in the way his body loosened, and the fight vanished.

"That does not mean give up," Glorfindel said quietly, but sternly. "Elrond," he barked.

"I hear you," Elrond said weakly.

"Good. Then listen to me," he ordered. "Keep fighting. Or else I will tell Gil-galad."

"Tell…what?" Elrond asked, breath once again coming in short, ragged gasps.

"That you gave up," Glorfindel retorted. "And I will quite possibly also mention that it was you who changed the soups at dinner."

"You wouldn't….dare," Elrond replied.

"Of course I would. And you know it."

They had reached the fork in the passage, and turned down the left hand fork. Elrond was tiring quickly. What little strength he had was bleeding out of him as he forced himself to take one step, then another. They were never going to make it to the gate before the Orcs caught them.

Glorfindel glanced over his shoulder. The sounds of pursuit were distinctly closer now, the air beginning to stir and the ground tremble, heralding the rushing Orcs as they drew close. Glorfindel grimaced. They seemed to have overcome their fear of him – that or they found that they feared something else far more.

Without warning, Elrond fell limp. Glorfindel glanced down, and saw that Elrond had at last fallen unconscious. Glancing over his shoulder yet again, the golden warrior carefully lowered the senseless Peredhel down to the ground. He stretched the limp body, legs out, arms at his sides.

Looking down the passage back the way they had come one final time, Glorfindel sheathed his sword. Then, bending down, he scooped Elrond up into his arms and began to run.

There was no way that he would make it, Glorfindel knew that. The Orcs were too close, and the mouth of the cave too far. There was only darkness ahead, darkness unbroken. Not even any grey light. No, it was too far…far too far, so long as he was carrying Elrond.

If he was unburdened, Glorfindel thought he may have a chance. But he did not pause, did not even stop to consider the possibility. As he had told Elrond, he would carry the stubborn Peredhel out, or he would die trying. And that was that.

The Orcs were closing in behind. Glorfindel did not risk a look backwards, but he could sense their presence drawing ever closer. He could smell their stench upon the thick, underground air, could all but feel their rotten yellow eyes gleaming as they came after him.

He would be grabbed from behind, leapt on, and dragged down, teeth sinking into flesh, tearing and chewing before he had even been properly killed. And Elrond would be similarly taken, devoured as he lay helpless. At least he would be unconscious.

Claws, claws grappling at his boot. Glorfindel kicked, and there was a high-pitched squeal as it connected and bone gave way. Then more claws, tearing at his breeches, leaping at his back, scratching at his arms. Glorfindel pushed himself harder, sprinting for all that he was worth.

He would die trying.

Brilliant noonday sun blazed into the mouth of the passage like a lamp suddenly unshuttered. Glorfindel staggered even as he pushed himself to continue to run, blinded by the assault of painfully bright light. He couldn't see, but that did not matter. It only mattered that he run. Run. Carry him out. Carry him out or die trying.

Something grabbing his arms. Shaking them off, trying to escape. They would devour him, them both. No, no!

Shadows, vague and blurred, and soothing, familiar words. Words in a silver tongue, not in the black, jagged syllables of the Orcs. Sindarin. An Elf.

"My lord please, you must release him," someone was saying into his ear, touching his shoulder. "My lord, please. You are safe – you are both safe. You can release him now."

Numbly, Glorfindel relinquished his hold on the limp body in his arms, and he felt as it was lifted away. He felt empty, hollow, void of emotion or feeling. Drained. Exhausted.

A parade of slowly resolving shadows and blurs moved all about him, and Glorfindel could hear voices, snippets of conversation. "Must move before…" "The days are long…" "Lord Elrond?" "Alive."

Slowly the world came into focus as Glorfindel's eyes at last adjusted to the bright, noonday sun. He found himself sitting on a rocky slope high in the mountains, with the sun shining down from a peerlessly azure sky. He blinked owlishly, and then looked around.

A door of sorts sat into a crack in the rocks half a dozen paces up the slope from him. At least, he thought it was a door, or what used to be a door, for a slab of iron hung off-kilter, listing toward the earth although it did not quite reach. A ring dangled from the unhinged door, swinging slightly in the breeze.

_Safe. At least for the time being._ The words whispered in Glorfindel's mind. But were they truly safe? And what of Elrond? Would he even live?

Of course. Elrond was one of the strongest and most resilient Elves Glorfindel had ever met. Well, half-elf to be precise. Perhaps that was part of it, his Human blood making him stronger. Glorfindel sighed and then whispered a quick prayer.

_I will carry you out, or die trying_. A small, tight-lipped smile quirked the edges of Glorfindel's lips. At least he'd carried Elrond out.

And they hadn't died trying.


	4. Day 4 - Elladan and Elrohir

**Rating/Warnings:** Rated K. None.

**Time frame:** It jumps around a little bit. The first part, Estel is 4, the second part, the twins are 15, which is around the equivalent of 7 or so. I think. So that's how I attempted to write them...

**A/N:** It's not 4 guys!...yeah, it's 5. But I'm still alive, and no seeing things tonight! Haha. I really have to start managing my time better. But yeah, anyway... This is a headcanon that I've been wanting to write for a long time, and at last had a chance to do so! So. Yeah. Hopefully you enjoy. Again, it hasn't been edited (since it's now after 5 in the morning), so my apologies for mistakes.

Huge, enormous thanks go to Charlotte2May, Ithilethiel Peredhel, and Lorinand for reviewing! One of these days I'll actually have enough time to properly thank you before I post the next chapter...but it is not that day! Thank you though, so very very much, for all of your support! To those who have favorited/alerted, I am glad that you are enjoying this! To you readers - I hope that you are enjoying it. I would _love _to hear from any of you, even just to say whether you liked it or not - truly, every little bit helps. But most importantly...I hope that you enjoy!

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**Day 4 – Something about a character who is probably a bad influence on you**

**Elladan/Elrohir**

For the first fifteen years of their lives, Elladan and Elrohir had two speeds and two speeds only – amble and charge. As such, it was not an uncommon sight in Imladris to see the two identical bundles of energy flying down the halls of the Main House, dark hair flying behind them as they ran, laughing. Most who saw them smiled and artfully dodged out of the twins' way, chuckling as the boys rushed past, however there were always a few who would halt the boys and give them a gentle, albeit stern reprimand. Their mother had made it quite clear what she thought of her children sprinting through the bustling halls of her house.

There was one, however, that would rarely reprimand Elladan and Elrohir for their hasty travel through the halls. Indeed, it was thought by not just a few that he was the instigator for this particular habit, although that suspicion was religiously kept from Lady Celebrían.

Whenever Elrond would catch Elladan and Elrohir running through the halls, it was his custom to halt them, ask them what it was they were doing or where they were going in such a rush, nod, and then state calmly, "Simply remember what your mother has said. Now run along." At first they had taken that to be a reprimand and, duly chastised, had moderated their speed to a much more sedate pace. Yet there came a day when, overcome with excitement at the prospect of being allowed at last to greet the newborn kittens in Glorfindel's study, they dashed away from their father. He did not halt them or call them back. Elrohir had stopped for an instant, pulling up short in horror, and had glanced back to see his father only just standing and turning away. It was then that, in his five-year-old way of understanding, he realized that what they had thought was a chastisement not such, but rather a cautionary warning.

As noted above, more than a few attributed this particular practice of the twins to Elrond. It all began when they were just beginning to crawl. Elrond would set one twin upon his shoulders and take the other in his arms, and like that he would run through the halls, bearing them wherever it was that they were supposed to be – dinner; bath time; and even, once they began their lessons, to the study room on the third floor. As the twins grew older, they would both cling to his back, arms hooked over a shoulder where he would hold to their hands, and their legs wrapped around his sides.

Celebrían caught them a few times, and every time she did so she would glare at her husband and give him a stern word. Elrond would have the decency to look abashed, yet as soon as Celebrían had gone on and had disappeared out of sight, he would resume their flight and at no slower of a pace than before.

When Arwen joined the family, Elrond took to doing the same with her. He would set her atop his shoulders and hold to her feet, and it was in this way that Arwen was first taken to many of the more remote and hidden places of the Valley – sitting on her father's shoulders, hands clutching his hair, cheek pressed against the top of his head. It was her favorite place to be.

Elladan and Elrohir would carry her as well, but never on their shoulders, and neither did they run with her through the halls of the House. It was their own, unspoken rule, for reasons all their own, which they never shared with another living soul.

But then Celebrían was captured as she journeyed between Lothlórien and Imladris, and Elladan and Elrohir set out to find and rescue her. When they returned, Elladan bearing their bleeding and broken mother on the saddle before him, they were never the same. Their eyes were shadowed with a darkness that few of the Eldar born after the Last Alliance harbored, and there was little laughter or joy in their voices, even as they were lifted to song.

Elladan and Elrohir were not the only ones affected, however. Elrond became sterner, Arwen more somber. The entire Valley fell silent for a year, a pall of fear and sorrow hanging over the normally joyous haven. And there were other, subtler changes as well – small things, only noticeable to those who knew the family well.

Then came the day that the twins would forever hold as one of their worst memories; the day when a part of their childhoods – a very blessed, joyful part of their childhoods – was ended forever.

They had been hurrying through the halls, pace well beyond what could be considered proper, when they heard their names being called sharply. They halted and turned to see their father approaching, a stern look on his face.

"Whatever are you two doing?" he had asked, his tone deceptively calm. "Your mother has told you time and again not to run in the halls, has she not?"

"That never kept _you_ from doing so," Elladan retorted hotly, his temper ever on the edge of erupting those days.

"That was then, and this is now," their father had replied, and there was steel in his voice." He seemed to see the shock and the pain on his sons' faces then, for when Elrond next spoke, his tone was softer. "Do not let me catch you running in the halls again," he told them, and then turned away.

At first, the twins did not believe that their father had meant what he had said. They were angry and bitter, indignant at Elrond for his act of hypocrisy, but never did they truly, fully believe that he had meant what he had said. Not until Arwen came to them a number of weeks after, unshed tears in her eyes, and bearing a similar tale.

Their righteous fury only grew, and another seed of bitterness was planted in their hearts. It was not until many years later that they would begin to understand the full implications and tragedy behind their father's change, or see the full measure of what losing their mother had done to their father.

Then Estel came to live in Imladris, bringing something back to the Valley that had been missing since Celebrían's departure. The twins loved the human boy, and they could see that their father loved him as well. He became their brother, and their father had another son.

Yet never once did Elrond lift the young Adan up and place him on his shoulders to take him running through the House. Instead, Elrond would catch the young child as he attempted to fly past and give him a stern word about running through the halls.

And it was then, at last, that the twins truly understood why it was that their father no longer ran through the halls, and why he frowned when his children did so: it was his way of keeping Celebrían there with him – his way of honoring her memory, her love, and her children. And the weed that had grown from that seed of bitterness was uprooted.

So at last it came upon the twins to teach Estel the lesson their father had taught them: that one did not always get into trouble if they broke a rule, so long as he knew who he could and who he could not break it in front of. And they took it upon themselves to lift their baby brother up to their shoulders and bear him about the house full gallop. And whenever their father would catch them, he would glare at his sons and give them a stern word. And Elladan and Elrohir would have the decency to look abashed, yet as soon as their father had gone on and had disappeared out of sight, they would resume their flight and at no slower of a pace than before.

(Rivendell – T.A. 2935)

"Come on, Elladan, please?" Estel begged, looking up at his oldest brother with wide, beseeching eyes. Elladan simply laughed and then shook his head. "Why not?" the young boy pouted, sitting down on the floor of the playroom, arms crossed tightly across his chest.

"Because, little brother," Elladan replied, "carrying you around at a gallop is a tiring thing, especially as you are getting to be so big." Glancing up at his twin, who was lounging by the wall watching them, Elladan added, "I do not see how Adar managed to carry us both on his shoulders when we were even larger than Estel."

Elrohir grinned and shook his head in agreement. "I doubt we will ever understand. 'Twill simply be another mystery for us to ponder."

Estel looked between his two brothers, a look of confusion clouding his silver-blue eyes, and causing his forehead to wrinkle as he frowned. Elladan noted his brother's confusion and, taking pity on him, said, "Did you know that Adar used to carry me and Elrohir around on his shoulders, just like we do you?"

Estel's eyes bugged and his mouth opened wide. "He did?" the five-year-old gasped. He seemed to be having a very difficult time imagining such a thing. "But…but he always seems to be so mad when I run in the halls."

Elrohir chuckled, pushing himself away from the wall and settling himself down next to his twin and mimicking Elladan's pose, legs crossed. "I would not quite call it mad," he said with a small shake of his head. "It is…something else." Just for an instant, Elladan and Elrohir shared a look, the briefest flash of sorrow flaring in their silver as both recalled the same memory. Then Elrohir looked back to his little brother, his smile back in place, although it seemed a little less bright than before.

"But…" Estel protested, floundering as his young mind tried to take in this new aspect to his father that he had never imagined before. "But Ada doesn't run," he said at last.

Again Elladan and Elrohir laughed, causing Estel's face to darken. Elrohir stifled his laughter, and held open his arms, inviting Estel to climb into his lap. The young boy did so after a moment of careful regard, trying to decide if he wanted to snuggle with the person who had just laughed at him. Love for his brother finally won out over grudge, and Estel obligingly clambered into Elrohir's lap, wriggling until he was comfortably propped up against Elrohir's chest.

"Oh tithen gwador," Elrohir said softly, kissing the top of the curly hair that adorned Estel's head, "we did not mean to laugh at you. I can recall thinking the very same as you."

"But there is much more to Adar than meets the eye," Elladan added, finishing Elrohir's thought. "You will come to see that, in time."

"Would you like us to tell you a story about it? Adar carrying us, I mean," Elrohir clarified.

Estel nodded. "Yes please," he said, snuggling a little closer – he loved when his brothers would tell him stories, especially stories of their own childhoods. Elrohir grinned at Elladan.

"Well, it began on a day when the rain was pouring from the sky, as if they cloud thought that they were waterfalls instead of clouds. Adar and our Naneth had told us that we could not go outside, and Elladan and I were getting more and more restless by the minute…"

_(T.A. 115)_

Elladan and Elrohir sat in the window seat at the end of the short hallway that led to Glorfindel, Erestor, and their father's studies, fidgeting constantly. The rain was streaming down the window, the steady drumming of raindrops against the glass accompanying the keening of the wind as it parted about the eaves of the house.

Elladan sighed and flung himself back against the wall, sighing dramatically. "I wish we could go outside," he moaned for the fourth time that hour, crossing his arms and staring moodily out at the dark grey clouds that hung thick and low over the Valley.

"I know," Elrohir retorted, his patience at last beginning to wear thin, "me too."

"I don't know why Nana won't let us go out," Elladan complained. "It's just a little water."

"You know why," Elrohir replied.

Elladan snorted. "Yes. Because storms in the Valley can be very fierce, and can come up unexpectedly and dangerously fast," he said, quoting their father nearly word-for-word. "But it's not like we would even be out long," he added in protest.

Elrohir sighed. "We can't go outside, El," he said, fixing his twin with a hard stare, "and that's that. It's no use complaining, and only makes the day worse for everyone else."

The sound of a door opening down the hall dragged the twins' attention away from the window – and their debate – and over to their father, who had just emerged from his study. The door shut behind him, and then he turned, coming down the hall toward them.

"We are sorry Ada," Elrohir said, ducking his head as Elrond neared, "we were not meaning to be so loud." Elladan mumbled something that vaguely sounded like an apology as well, but his words were lost in a sudden clap of thunder that shook the air.

Elrond smiled and crouched down beside the window seat, one hand coming to rest on Elladan's knee. "Have you two not found something to occupy yourselves yet?" he asked, although he did not sound upset.

Elrohir merely shook his head, but Elladan sighed heavily, allowing himself to plop back against the pillows once more. "No," he said. "We were playing hide and seek in the Library, but then Calenaer said that we were being too loud and disruptive, and sent us out. So then we tried to play Elves and Orcs, but El wouldn't be the Orc even though it was his turn." Here Elladan turned to glare at his brother, who crossed his arms.

"Was not," he shot back. "I was the Orc last time, when we played down by the fountain two days ago. Remember?"

Elladan shook his head, but then turned back to his father and went on. "Well, then we went down to the Kitchens, but Cook Idhremith told us we couldn't stay because…" he trailed off, and glanced at Elrohir.

"Because, 'The last time I allowed you two to haunt my hall, we had a pan of honey cakes less than we had made,'" he filled in, adopting a higher pitched, false falsetto as he quoted the head cook. Elrond could not quite help the small smile that pricked the edges of his mouth.

"Anyway, so then we went to go see what Nana was doing, but she was busy writing letters…"

"And so she told us to go play quietly…."

"But most of our toys are in the boxes up on the shelves so the floor could be cleaned…"

"And so we couldn't reach them, no matter how hard we tried or creative we were."

As the narrative had progressed, the twins had lapsed into an old habit of theirs, where they would finish each other's sentences, and often trade off mid-thought. Few could follow who was who at times as that, causing a good deal of confusion, and mainly for that reason Elrond and Celebrían had done their best to curb the habit. They had been unsuccessful thus far, although Elrond was not overly worried, for he could recall himself and Elros doing much the same when they were children.

"It seems then that you have reached an impasse," Elrond said.

Elrohir frowned. "Im-pass?" he asked slowly, feeling the word in his mouth.

"Impasse," Elrond repeated. "It means that you have found yourself in a position with no way out, or path to take."

"Impasse," Elrohir tried again, and Elrond nodded encouragingly. "We have reached an impasse," Elrohir repeated, and then looked up at his father.

"Very good," Elrond said with a warm smile.

A second thunderclap boomed through the air outside, and the drumming of the rain intensified, now hammering at the glass. Elladan spared a sorrowful look back to the window and his shoulders drooped. He seemed to realize that the storm was not about to let up, and would likely rage all day. Elrohir followed his brother's lead, looking at the window, and then back to his father.

"Is it going to rain all day?" he asked mournfully.

"I fear so," Elrond told them. "Why was it so important to you to be able to go out this day?" he queried. They preferred playing outside, but rarely had he seen them quite so woebegone when they were trapped indoors for only a single day.

It was Elrohir's turn to sigh. "Adeldes said that the swan eggs would most likely hatch today. And since she was not going to be here to see them, we wanted to be able to be there so we could describe it all to her," Elrohir explained.

"But now we cannot even go outside," Elladan groused.

"I am sorry, my sons," Elrond said, standing up to kiss each on the head. "There will be other hatchings, and I am sure that Adeldes will understand – she will not be upset."

"We know," Elladan said, "but…" he trailed off. Elrond knew, however – but they were still disappointed.

Elrond canted his head to one side, thinking. "Adeldes was to return this afternoon, correct?" he asked. Elladan and Elrohir both nodded. Elrond frowned. With the weather so poor, it was unlikely that she would make it home that day. It would be a sore blow to the twins, who had missed their caretaker – and friend – as she had gone to visit her uncle and cousin, who lived a day's walk away, deeper into the valley where the richest farmland was.

Making up his mind, Elrond turned and knelt once more. He looked over his shoulder at his sons, who were watching him curiously. "Climb on," he bade. They scrambled quickly over to the edge of the window seat cushions, excited – it had been a long while since their father had carried them thus – and then they nimbly hopped up onto his back, Elladan to the right, Elrohir to the left. They both hooked their arms over a shoulder, and gripped tightly with their knees, doubling their legs up so that they could help to keep their balance by pressing the shin of one leg against their father's hip. Elrond reached up and grasped his sons' hands, to ensure that they would not fall off, and then he stood.

They were heavier than the last time he had carried them, and for a moment he considered the wisdom in his actions. But then he laughed silently at himself – he had worn armor that was just as heavy, if not so cumbersome, as his two children, and he had managed to fight in it, let alone jog.

Standing, Elrond began to walk down the hall, readjusting his balance and stride to accommodate the added weight. As they neared the mouth of the side hall, however, where the main corridor turned left, and the hall opened into a landing in front of the grand, sweeping stairs, Elrond began to quicken his stride.

Elrond veered left, turning down the main corridor. He lengthened his stride again, settling into a comfortable lope. On his back, Elladan and Elrohir giggled

"Faster Ada," Elladan urged, "or else the Orcs will catch us!"

"Hurry Ada, hurry," Elrohir piped in, sounding truly anxious. Elrond could not quite bite back a chuckle.

"Ada, this is no laughing matter," Elladan gasped. "If we don't go faster, the Orcs are going to catch and eat us!"

"Indeed? Well then we had best run faster, had we not?" Elrond called back, to whoops of excitement. Elrond sped up, taking another left, and heading for the stairs that led to the third floor.

Up the stairs he bounded, Elladan and Elrohir laughing and urging him on as sprang up. Then down the hall, arcing around toward one of the Music Halls that he knew would be open. As they neared the double doors, Elrond shifted his hold on Elladan's wrists, then lifted his right leg and expertly kicked open the door, catching the latch just right to send the door banging open. He ran into the large hall, noted that it was empty save the chairs and a harp sitting in the far corner, and then released Elladan and Elrohir's hands. Taking the cue, they dropped to the floor.

"Come, let us make this our final stand," Elrond said with finality. Backing up, with a hand on each of their shoulders as he did so, Elrond put the wall against their backs, and then mimed drawing a sword. "With the cliff wall to our back, we will at least stand a chance."

"Here they come," Elrohir exclaimed, pointing wildly out into the shadowed center of the hall – the lamps were burning low in their holders on the walls, but the flames were not nearly bright enough to illuminate the entirety of the room.

Elladan drew his own imaginary sword, and bared his teeth, Elrohir following suit. Then with wild cries they threw themselves forward and began to whirl and stab and cut at the air, trying to make appropriate war faces and sounds all the while.

"Come on Ada," Elladan called, seeing that Elrond had hung back. "We will never defeat them without your help!"

With a mighty cry, Elrond leapt forward, coming to his sons' aid. He fought the imaginary Orcs, slaying one, then another, and then coming to Elrohir's aid when he shouted that Orcs were attacking him from behind.

At last all of the "Orcs" lay dead, and the three victors were left standing alone in the vast concert hall. Elladan and Elrohir were panting heavily, although they were grinning broadly.

"We did it," Elladan called.

"We defeated them," Elrohir added. "Huzzah!"

"Well fought my sons," Elrond said, still smiling. He mimed sheathing his sword, and then lunged for Elrohir, scooping the younger twin up into his arms. Lifting him up, Elrond placed Elrohir on his shoulders, and then made an over exaggerated grab for Elladan. The elder twin shrieked and dodged away, only to be snatched up not even a moment later as he attempted to make a dash for the door. Elrond cradled his eldest son, holding the boy tight as he growled menacingly. Elladan giggled and squirmed, but to no avail – his father's arms were simply too strong.

"And now," Elrond said, turning back toward the door, Elrohir still on his shoulders, Elladan still in his arms, "I think we should go ask Cook Idhremith for something to eat. Brave warriors must eat to keep their strength up, after all."

"Fruit cakes make me strong," Elrohir claimed.

"Same with me," Elladan put in, grinning up at his father impishly.

Elrond laughed. "We shall have to see what Cook Idhremith has," he replied.

They walked back the way they had come, taking the stairs back down to the second level. The twins did not notice the few watchers who stood in doorways or corners, engaged as they were in an animated debate concerning which fruit cakes were the best – strawberry or blueberry – although Elrond did. Those who saw him were smiling as they bowed their heads to him, apparently enjoying the sight. Elrond relaxed, his slight concern that they had disturbed those on the third floor being put to rest.

They continued down the stair case to the first floor, turning left immediately upon reaching the second floor and descending down to the ground floor on the staircase there. They entered the Kitchens from the side door, which was conveniently place only a few paces away from the staircase.

Idhremith chuckled as she saw Lord Elrond weaving his way through the Kitchen staff, one twin perched on his shoulders, the other lying comfortably in his arms. He smiled softly at her when she caught his eye, and bowed his head slightly – any more and he would risk sending Elrohir (leastways she thought it was Elrohir) toppling off. She bowed her head in return, and then began bustling about, gathering a snack that would fill the bellies of two growing elflings, and an Elf lord.

"We fought off a whole pack of Orcs," Elladan said, turning to Idhremith excitedly as she came within hearing distance, carrying a tray with three raspberry cakes and three glasses of milk. Lord Elrond had carried them to a table set into the nook beside the main hearth, and had sat them down on one of the benches. He was sitting opposite them, elbows on the table, fingers steepled as he listened to his sons discussing their "battle" excitedly.

"There were so many of them," Elrohir added. "And Ada helped to defeat them too."

"Thank you, Idhremith," Elrond said as the Cook placed the tray down on the table.

Idhremith smiled in return. "Of course, my lord," she said, and then turned away as she heard Lord Elrond stop one of his sons from snatching all three of the cakes at once.

(T.A. 2935)

Elrohir finished the tale, and then looked down at his little brother. Estel was listening intently, his eyes wide with awe – likely from hearing a story about his beloved older brothers when they were his age. There was a small line in his forehead, however, indicating that he was thinking something through.

"What is it, little brother?" Elladan asked. "What is causing you to think so hard?"

Estel pursed his lips. "I dunno know," he said at last. "It's just…Ada. He seemed different in your story," he said. "You sure you remembered it right?"

Elladan laughed, and Elrohir could not help but chuckle. Estel squirmed, although he could not help but grin as well, if only because his brothers had found what he said so amusing. He could tell that they were not laughing at him, so he did not mind so much.

"That _was_ a very long time ago," Elladan pointed out, still chuckling. "You probably are remembering it wrong."

Elrohir shot a mock glare at his brother, although there was no real bite to it. The truth was was that they both knew precisely why their father was so different now than he had been those many, many years ago. But that was not a tale that they were going to tell their little brother any time soon – he was still far too young to hear such a tale, let alone understand what it meant.

"Still, that was very clever of you, little brother," Elrohir said, looking down and hugging Estel. "You will make a fine scholar one day, just like Adar."

"No," Estel said simply, "not like Ada. Because Ada's the best, or Erestor. But maybe like you."

Elladan snorted, and Elrohir feigned indignation. "What?" he asked, melodramatically placing a hand to his breast. "You mean I am not the best there ever was?"

"No," Estel said matter-of-factly. He grinned up at his brother. "But I still love you."

"And I love you. Despite the fact that you are the most precocious child I have met."

"And I love you both," Elladan butted in, "but I am starved, and if you two do not stand up soon, I will leave for dinner without you."

Estel whooped and scrambled out of Elrohir's lap. Elladan caught Elrohir's eye, and the younger twin nodded. Elladan grinned, and then without warning he swooped down and lifted Estel high into the air, tossing him. Estel shrieked in laughter as Elladan caught him neatly, and then swung the child up to his onto his shoulders.

Elrohir was just picking himself up off of the floor. "Are you two ready?" he asked. Elladan nodded, closely mirrored by Estel. Elrohir opened the door, and held it wide for Elladan to pass through. As soon as they were out in the hall, Elladan let loose a whoop of his own and took off down the corridor. Elrohir shook his head, closed the door behind himself, and then took off after his brothers.

"If you eat all of the fruit cakes before I get there, I'll eat you both in recompense," he called out in warning as Elladan and Estel disappeared around the corner. Laughter was his only response.


	5. Day 5 - Gil-galad

**Rating/Warnings:** K. None.

**Time frame:** 743 of the Second Age. In my headcanon, Elrond was made Herald in 659 (I am of the belief that a Herald was a position in court (a very, very high position, it may be noted), and whose duties extended beyond commanding/relaying orders in battle. That's my belief though...and I may go further into detail about this later. We'll see). Also, Ost-in-edhil was built in 750, which I take to mean building was begun in 750.

**A/N:** Wow everyone, your support just keeps growing and growing! Thank you so, so very much to all of you who have favorited and alerted. To those of you who have reviewed (Charlotte2May, Lorinand, Raynagh, TheHouseWitch, and Oleanne) thank you a hundred times over. Your support and encouragement mean the world to me, and give me strength to carry on.

Ironically enough, I was actually writing this piece while the whole Texas/Wendy Davis/Leticia Van de Putte thing was going on. And this was my first time ever attempting to actually wrote politics. Which was terrifying, and I can only hope I get better at it. But please, _please _let me know what you think of the chapter, seeing as I'm especially worried about it. Like I said, new topic I tried to broach, and I have no idea how well I did. Encouragement, advice, tips, (ESPECIALLY the latter two) would be loved.

Again, this isn't edited. But at least it isn't 5am this time. I am still planning on replying to all of your beautiful reviews, and I will as soon as I can learn to manage my time more efficiently. Again, thank you all so much. I hope you enjoy!

* * *

**Day 5 – Something about a character you wish you were related to**

**Gil-galad**

Gil-galad was a remarkably "down-to-earth" person, especially for being of the Eldar, and even more so for being of noble blood. He had an air about him that exuded calm comfortableness with all around him – people, places, even events – and that gave one the impression that he both saw and understood the world about himself. He was also surprisingly easy-going, taking all that happened in stride and allowing very little to faze him.

This overall persona allowed people to open up to him, and encouraged many to seek both his counsel and his company. He was a king of his people, and his people loved him for it in a way that not even Turgon, who had borne with him an air of proud regality, could have inspired. He laughed easily, and was unafraid to speak when he thought that he should – and even, occasionally, when he knew he should not. Even so, there was an intensity and weight of power that seemed to stand behind Gil-galad at every move and word – a wild, untamable fickleness that seemed almost to be more Adan than Eldar – which both awed and ever so slightly frightened many who met him.

With this personality, however, came a certain disregard for propriety, and dislike for formality. Gil-galad knew that there was a certain degree of both that he could not avoid, and he accepted that with grace, and always he commanded an air of respect. Even so, that did not dissuade Gil-galad from disliking court dinners, arduous celebrations, and ponderous rituals. This earned him the ill grace of a few of his more stringent and stiff courtiers

When Elrond came into the picture, Gil-galad leapt at his chance. Even before he had declared Elrond his Herald, Gil-galad would drag his young cousin with him to every state or private dinner, dance, or meeting that he could, if only to give himself someone with which to share in his misery. It was in this way that Elrond first learned politics.

After a time, Gil-galad began to bring Elrond with him for far more practical reasons than go have someone to talk to when the long hours of the night dragged on, and whatever dance they were attending was still dragging on monotonously. Elrond had a calm charm about him that could soothe even the most ruffled of feathers or timid Elf and Man, and he, with his quiet and thoughtful words and his cool, silver gaze, could gain both the attention and the confidence of those who hesitated when confronted with Gil-galad.

(Mithlond – S.A. 743)

"Oi, Elrond." Gil-galad's powerful voice filled the hall, echoing off of the ornately carved wooden panels that formed the walls of the corridor. The raven-haired Elf turned, eyebrows raised as he watched the king stride up the hall toward him, robes of billowing behind him.

"Yes, my lord?" Elrond asked drolly as Gil-galad at last drew within proper hailing distance. Gil-galad grinned at his Herald's tone.

As Gil-galad drew even with Elrond, the king slung an arm around his cousin's shoulders. "I have a favor to ask of you, Elrond," he said brightly.

"Oh? And what might that be?" Elrond asked warily.

"What? Do you not trust me?" Gil-galad asked in return, not answering Elrond's question.

"No," Elrond retorted, "not when you are grinning like that. That grin usually means that you are going to ask me to do something that I will very much regret in the very near future."

"Elrond, I'm wounded," Ereinion said dramatically. "At least I am asking and not simply ordering," he put in.

"And if I say no, then you will simply order me to do whatever it is you are going to ask me to do anyway. So I suppose that I should just accept now. Now what is it?"

Gil-galad laughed at that, and then turned his Herald so that they were walking back the way they had come. "Dear Farweth and Daeralas, the lord and lady of the house of Fornmen, cordially invited me to attend luncheon with them in their suites. To 'Discuss the upcoming Council meeting.'"

Elrond's voice was incredulous as he said, "You do not think they are going to attempt to convince you to allow them to build a road through the forests of Forlond again, do you?"

"What else do you think they are going to attempt to convince me of?" Gil-galad wondered wryly. "They truly live up to being lord and lady of their house."

Elrond shook his head, and then sighed. "So, am I correct then in assuming this is you asking me to accompany you to this dreaded luncheon?"

"I knew I appointed you my Herald for a reason," Gil-galad chirped. "Yes, I am."

"Very well then," Elrond grumbled. "What time do they expect us – well, you?"

"Right now, actually," Gil-galad replied. "Well, a few minutes ago now, I am sure." He did not sound ashamed in the least.

"I am hardly dressed appropriately," Elrond protested.

"You are fine," Gil-galad reassured his Herald.

"Ereinion, I'm in riding breeches and jerkin. Not at all what is considered appropriate attire for a cordial visit."

Gil-galad stopped abruptly, pulling his arm from around Elrond's shoulders. Elrond took a few steps past before he realized that Gil-galad had halted, and then turned. Gil-galad was only just shrugging off his loose, trailing outer robes, leaving him clad in a silk shirt lightly embroidered with gold thread and dark trousers. He balled the robes up into a tight was and then, after glancing up and down the hall, stuffed them down into a vase that was conveniently placed on a table close by.

"There. Do you feel better now?" Gil-galad asked.

"Hardly," Elrond grated. "Put your robes back on. It is bad enough for your Herald to arrive in an inappropriate manner, but it would be even worse for you to do so. They will think that you are purposefully not giving them the respect that they deserve – and they do deserve it, Ereinion, no matter how aggravating they may prove to be. At least I will have the excuse that you did not inform me of this meeting until but five moments ago."

With a sigh, Gil-galad retrieved his robes. Shaking them out, he slipped them back on, the cloth only slightly wrinkled. "You are right," he groused. "As usual. Well come on then. We should not keep them waiting any longer." He strode off down the hall, Elrond turning and hurrying to catch up.

They arrived at the door to the lord and lady of Fornmen's rooms not quite five minutes later. Elrond knocked then stepped back, although he remained standing slightly in front of the king, back straight, and face carefully schooled.

The door was opened by a guard in the colors of the House of Fornmen – brown and gold – and he bowed when he saw who stood in the hall.

"The lord and lady invited the King to dine with them," Elrond stated.

"Of course, my lords. The lord and lady are expecting you. This way please," the footman said, ushering them inside. Elrond stood aside so that Gil-galad could enter first, and then followed the King into the lavishly decorated antechamber.

The footman closed the door, and then led them down an adjoining hall hung with rich tapestries and lit with glowing lamps. He halted halfway down the corridor, turning to push open two sliding doors, and then bowed the two nobles into the dining room.

"The King Ereinion and his Herald, Elrond," the footman announced as Gil-galad and Elrond passed through the door. Duty finished, he slid shut the doors behind them, and they could hear his footsteps receding down the hallway.

The dining room was as beautifully decorated as the antechamber and the hall. Large, mullioned windows filled the far wall, permitting a blaze of noonday light into the room. The thin, lace curtains fluttered ever so slightly in the light breeze that wafted in through the small, paneless squares cut into the frames along the top. Paintings hung upon opposing walls – one painting depicted a fleet of mighty, white ships, their sails caught in the wind, the sea rising in blues and greens about the hulls; the other painting was of a long, winding path that curved between the trees of some mighty forest, the shadows hiding a myriad of secrets. A door was set into the left hand wall, presumably leading to the kitchens.

A large, oak table dominated the center of the room, the legs carved into the likeness of twisting, coiling vines, which continued up around the lip of the table itself. Eight high-backed chairs sat empty around the table, the backs etched with the same patterning as that on the table. There were three sets of dishes and cutlery sitting on the table, at the head of the table, and then at the chairs immediately to the left and to the right.

The lord and lady were standing beside a low table set against the near wall, the tabletop sporting a decanter of fine wine and a stand of glass goblets. They had been conversing quietly, glasses of wine in hand, but they stilled and turned toward the door when Gil-galad and Elrond were announced.

"My lord," Lord Farweth said, stepping forward and bowing deeply. "We had begun to worry that you had not received the invitation." His voice was calm and sincere, but Gil-galad could detect a flash in his vibrant, blue eyes that was wholly at odds with his tone.

"My apologies," Gil-galad replied. "Elrond was out on business, and returned later than I had expected. I do hope that my asking him to accompany me does not inconvenience you overmuch."

It was Lady Daeralas that replied. "Of course not," she said, smiling, although her eyes skittered up and down his body, taking in his clothing, and her lips tightened into a thin line. "We are more than pleased that he was able to accompany you. Melris, will please set another place for the Lord Elrond?" she asked, turning to speak to a young Elf-maid who was standing by the table, just finishing placing the goblets into place."

"Of course my lady," Melris replied, bowing her head and then hurrying out through the side door. Lady Daeralas turned back to smile at her guests, but like her husband, Gil-galad thought that the smile did not quite reach her eyes.

_Politicians._ Gil-galad fought back a sigh.

"Can I pour you both a glass of wine?" Lord Farweth queried, halfway turning back to the table bearing the decanter and the goblets.

"That would be kind of you," Gil-galad replied, nodding his head.

"My thanks," Elrond supplied, smiling ever so slightly.

Lord Farweth nodded curtly, and then turned to pour two more goblets of rich, red wine. He then handed one first to Gil-galad, then to Elrond, who nodded his thanks.

Gil-galad took a small sip. The wine was excellent, rich and well-aged. "This is very fine wine," he commented, raising his glass slightly toward Lord Farweth.

"I am pleased to hear you say that, my lord," Lord Farweth replied. "It is from my family's vineyards, down south."

"You have estates in Harlond, do you not?" Elrond asked.

"Aye, that is where our main estate is located. I am impressed that you recall such a detail, Lord Elrond."

Elrond smiled charmingly. "It is difficult to forget the family – or the land – that gave the King such support in the building of Mithlond."

Gil-galad glanced sideways at Elrond approvingly. He was reminding them of their loyalty to the throne, and more importantly, of the image of their family supporting the throne. Clever. "Indeed," Gil-galad added, "without your aid, this city would not be what it is this day."

The return of the serving maid, Melris, distracted Lord Farweth from whatever he had been about to say. He half turned, eyes flickering to the young elleth, and then he looked back to Gil-galad.

"We are glad that we can be of service to the crown," Lord Farweth said, again inclining his head.

There was a brief silence, and then Lady Daeralas spoke again, this time turning to Elrond. "Lord Elrond, my husband tells me that you have traveled far to the east, is this true?"

"Yes, my lady," Elrond replied. "The Dwarven settlements in the mountains are very prosperous, and as they are now our neighbors, it is our hope to establish positive relations with them."

"A wise goal indeed," Lord Farweth said. "The Dwarves have proven to be good trading partners in the past. Perhaps, now that peace has come to the land, we can strike up those old friendships."

"I fear that old grudges are more firmly rooted than peace alone can uproot," Elrond said, "but it is at least a start."

"My lords, my lady," Melris announced into the silence, bowing when they turned to her, "lunch is ready to be served."

"Wonderful," Lady Daeralas said, turning. "Shall we sit?"

Gil-galad sat in the chair at the head of the table, Elrond to his right, and the lord and lady both sat to his left. They settled into the surprisingly comfortable chairs, and then waited in silence as serving staff began to file into the room, bearing bowls of finely chopped lettuce dressed with shavings of cheese and diced carrot. Water was poured into the first goblet, and then the serving staff retreated, leaving the nobles to eat in peace.

"My lord," Lord Farweth said, looking up at Gil-galad, "I heard a claim that you intend to expand the city yet again, adding on yet another district northward, up the coast. Tell me, is this true, or simply a rumor?"

Gil-galad laughed. "You should tell me who told you that rumor," he replied, "so that I may be more careful with whom I speak, for a rumor it is. I have no intention of expanding the city for a number of years yet. Moreover, I fully intent to leave such matters entirely in Círdan's most capable hands when the time comes – he has built and crafted nearly as many cities as centuries I have been alive."

"How fares Lord Círdan?" Lady Daeralas asked. "We have not seen him in court for what seems like many months."

"It is not for the bird to question the sun," Gil-galad responded. He shrugged almost comically. "I learned long ago not to question Lord Círdan. He is far wiser than I shall ever hope to be, and does things his own way."

"And what of you, Lord Elrond?" Daeralas queried, turning to the young Herald, "what do you think of Lord Círdan's absence in court?"

"I think that he is likely the wisest of us all," he replied with a quiet chuckle. "I would follow his lead, if I thought that I could manage it."

Lord Farweth laughed at that. "Indeed. The games the court plays are nearly as trying and dangerous as war itself."

"I thought politics was war," Elrond rejoined, his voice rising in pitch and his eyes widening slightly, giving him the look of a naïve youth. The others all laughed, and for the first time that afternoon those in the room truly seemed to smile.

"Very astute of you," Lord Farweth said.

Gil-galad shook his head barely visibly, smiling to himself. Trust Elrond to so neatly capture their good graces. He knew there was a reason he brought his Herald.

The servers returned, removing the now-empty bowls from the table. A moment later they returned with plates of steaming meat dipped in a dark, aromatic smelling sauce. The goblets of water were removed, and the wine was poured once more.

"Speaking of politics," Gil-galad said as the staff exited once more, "you said that you wished to discuss something with me before the Council meeting tomorrow?"

"Ah, yes," Lord Farweth replied, his face and his voice alike both dropping into the same cool mask as had been in place when they had first entered. "As I am sure you know trade has begun to increase between the settlements in the Blue Mountains, and Mithlond. However, it has come to my attention that trade has suffered during the spring and early summer months, as the snowmelts flood the river. As you know, the river is the main method of travel, for there is no road that leads down to the coast…"

"If this is you once again proposing a road through the Forest of Forlond," Gil-galad interrupted smoothly, "then I advise you to reconsider your next statement." His voice was deadly calm and serious, the barest hint of a warning in his tone. "My prior resolution still stands."

"But my lord, if I may, the trade is significantly impeded. Without a reliable route-"

"And do you think that a road through the Forest of Forlond would ever be as reliable as the river?" Elrond asked, his quiet, calm voice cutting into Lord Farweth's and silencing him. "During the winter months, such a road would be buried in snow. During the spring, the very same snowmelt that has caused the flooding that you claim slows trade down to a deprecating rate would wash out the road. This would require work during the summer months, further blocking the roads." Lord Farweth opened his mouth to speak, but Elrond continued. "Moreover, as the King just stated, his prior statement stands, as do the reasons that he cited. Primarily, the fact that there is a Silvan settlement living in the forest of Forlond, and to build a road through their land would be both immoral, and unwise. Their land is synonymous with the trees, and if we attempted to force them out to take those trees, we would be guilty of little better than what the Easterlings did in Beleriand after the Nirnaeth Ornoediad. And must I remind you what happened to Brodda when Túrin returned at last to his mother's home?"

There was silence at the table, and Elrond turned to Gil-galad. He was suddenly worried that he had overstepped his bounds, butting in where, and when, he should not have. But Gil-galad smiled at him. "Thank you, Elrond," he announced. "I trust that this issue is laid to rest?"

Lord Farweth had taken on the appearance of a young child who had just been told he could not have another sweet, but he bowed his head in any case, his jaw tight. "Yes, my lord," he replied.

The rest of the meal was a terse and awkward affair. Thankfully the only course after the meat was desert – a rich, creamy pudding – after which Elrond and Gil-galad were able to depart.

After they were out of sight of the door to the lord and lady's suites, Gil-galad let out a short, sharp bark of laughter. "Elrond, remind me not to get onto the wrong side of an argument with you," he grinned.

Elrond looked slightly confused. "Why do you say that? We have argued plenty before."

"Yes, and I always forget how good of a debater you are until something like this comes up."

"I do not understand," Elrond retorted, shaking his head. "What do you mean? I simply told him what you would have. My apologies, by the way. I should not have stepped in when I did – you were managing with the situation, and it was inappropriate."

Gil-galad laughed again, but this time it sounded more disbelieving. "Elrond, the last time Lord Farweth broached this subject, it took me nearly _half of an hour_ to effectively quiet him. You took less than _five minutes_."

Elrond shook his head again. "Half of what I said was your previous argument," he pointed out.

"Still," Gil-galad said brightly, "you have a gift. And I am further reminded why I should always bring you with me to things like that. Yes, I think from now on you will accompany me to any dinner or political affair."

"Ai, Varda save me," Elrond muttered under his breath. With the Council coming up, there would be much to deal with, regardless of whether or not Ereinion kept his promise – which Elrond had no doubt that he would.

"It will be fun," Gil-galad claimed, once more slinging an arm over his cousin's shoulders.

"I swear, Ereinion," Elrond sighed, "sometimes I wonder if you were dropped on your head as a child."

"Now, now," Gil-galad laughed, "is that any way to treat your king?"

Elrond merely rolled his eyes heavenward, and prayed for patience.


	6. Day 6 - Maedhros

**Rating/Warning:** Er...probably K+ or mild Teen for this one, for some violence.

**Time frame:** All over the place! Even more than Day 4. Uh...so here's a basic timeline/explanation. Elrond and Elros were born in 532 of the First Age. They were taken by Maedhros and Maglor at age 6. In my headcanon, they were released from Himring in 560, when they were 28 years old, and approximately 15 years after the War of Wrath began, and 29 years before the war would end. I take this to mean that the Elves had been fighting Morgoth since 545, however the Valar and the hosts of Valinor did not come until much later. I'm doing this because I don't recall an actual year that the Valar/Valinorian hosts arrived, and I feel that they would have been able to defeat Morgoth in less than nearly 45 years.

**A/N: **Wow...so yeah, it's really late. Like...it's kind of late even for early morning. My dad literally just got up for work...But I have yet to sleep, so this is still Day 6. Hah. I'm terribly sorry if any of you who normally read this before work, etc. aren't getting a chance to read it this morning! I know it's late...and I sincerely hope it won't happen again. Really...

Thank you SO much to the three of you who reviewed last chapter, Charlotte2May, Oleanne, and TheHouseWitch. I know I say this every day, but I really am going to get around to replying to all of your wonderful reviews SOON. To all of you who have favorited and/or alerted, thank you so much as well! It really means a lot to me that you are enjoying reading these. And now, I have a favor to ask of all of you...I know this may be a bit over-excited of me...but do you think we can reach 20 reviews with this chapter? That would be so awesome! Anyway, I would love to hear from you, even just a casual "I liked it" or whatnot, but most importantly, I hope that you enjoy this chapter! I had a _ton_ of fun writing it.

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**Day 6 – Something about a character that you would hate in real life, but love reading about**

**Maedhros**

Until they were much older, Elrond and Elros were identical (in looks if not in personality), from the straight black hair that seemed to grow all over the place, to the intelligently gleaming silver eyes, and even down to the impish grins that they would flash at you when they knew they had done something wrong. There were few who could innately differentiate between the two of them in the first twenty or so years of their lives, their mother being one and, ironically, Círdan being another, although he only met the twins twice before the final Kinslaying, when Maedhros and Maglor took the young sons of Elwing captive.

When Maedhros and Maglor took the twins captive, they knew little but that their names were Elrond and Elros – they had heard news that Elwing had borne twin boys, and with that news had come the twins' father-names. They did not even know which twin was which, and the twins never answered Maglor when he asked.

Maglor at last began to be able to differentiate between the two, although mostly by personality rather than by looks, and only after listening in on the twins' conversations. Elros was the brasher of the twins, unafraid to speak his mind as the weeks went by and the trauma from the night of the Kinslaying began to diminish. His words were passionate, whether in joy or fury, and he would cross his arms tightly across his chest, and his chin would just out in defiance – he would make a grand speaker one day, Maglor noted. Elrond was the quieter of the two, but in many ways the fiercer. He rarely spoke in those first few months, but when he did his words would have a bite to them that even Elros's fury could not quite obtain, and his eyes would turn as hard and as tempered steel. Even at the tender of age six he had a way with words, and Maglor knew that, just as his brother would, Elrond would have a gift for speaking.

It took Maedhros far longer to learn to differentiate between the twins than his brother. This, however, was due mostly to the fact that Maedhros simply did not _care_ – not at first, in any case.

And so Maedhros gave them both a new name, the first night that they were camped, with the twins were as of yet silent, terrified shadows; he gave to them the name Tittalundo. In crude Quenyan, it meant "little monster," and ever after, that was who the twins were in Maedhros's eyes. Even after he had learnt their true names, Maedhros was rarely heard to call either of them "Elrond" or "Elros," preferring instead to use his own name. And as the months bled into years, and Maedhros grew more insane with each passing moon, and he began to love the twins in his own way, the name was spoken less often with scorn or bitterness, and more often with a layered, nigh indistinguishable tone of affection.

(By the River Sirion, Beleriand – F.A. 538)

The large fire burned brightly, the dancing flames throwing up a curtain of sparks toward the star-strewn night sky. The camp itself was silent – or at least as silent as any camp can be – only the low murmurs of the Elves, and the chewing and stamping of the horses breaking the heavy stillness that seemed to hang in the air like a muffling cloak. The memory of what they had done just the night before clinging to every thought and word like a cocklebur to fur.

Maglor sat close to the fire, a bowl of thin soup in hand. Periodically, he would glance over toward the two small figures sitting close by, huddled in an extra blanket to help ward off the chill of the night air. It was odd, Maglor mused, that they were so affected by the cold, despite that they were merely six years of age. A twisted knot of guilt – an emotion that he had become all too familiar with over the course of the past age – tightened Maglor's gut at that thought. _Six. They are barely six years of age, and look what you have done to them._ It was then that Maglor realized that it was likely not just the chill of the night air that caused the twins to shake, but also shock.

Someone sat down beside Maglor, causing him to look up. It was Maedhros, and his gaze was on the twins as well. There was little pity in his eyes, though, and he shook his head.

"Pitiful," he muttered, turning his gaze into the fire.

"They are mere children, Maedhros," Maglor retorted, but there was no bite to his words. Instead, he simply sounded exhausted. "Young children at that. How much can you ask of them?"

Maedhros scoffed. "And why should I care about that, brother?" he asked. "They would be lying dead now if you had not staid my hand, and vouched for their lives. Why should I care now about their lives?"

"If I had allowed you to kill them, you would now be dead yourself," Maglor said, his voice dead. "When you had surfaced from your rage, your mind would have broken to know what you had done. Those would have been two deaths, Maedhros, that you never would have recovered from. This I know in my heart."

Maedhros stood abruptly and turned away, his face thunderous. A soft whimper came from one of the two twins, and both shrank back at the sight of their captor, face bathed in a hellish red glow, eyes gleaming, and countenance as that of a god of wrath. They remembered all too well the night before when Maedhros had looked upon them with murder in his eyes, gore dripping down one side of his face, and a bloodied blade clenched in his fist as he had kicked at Elros, who had made to stab him with a small, thin dagger. They remembered all too well the pain and the fear, and the gleam of a blade dripping blood that caught the firelight of their home as it burned as the sword was lifted high, ready to take their lives.

"Be silent, Tittalundo," Maedhros snarled, taking a threatening step toward the twins. "Be silent, and do not let me hear you speak again." Maedhros whirled and stalked away, cloak billowing behind him.

Maglor watched his brother leave, and stood as if to follow him. But then, glancing back to the twins, he turned to them instead. "Hush, little ones," he murmured. "My brother shall not harm you, I swear it."

Neither twin made another sound that night, or all the next day.

(Himring, Beleriand – F.A. 542)

A silhouette balanced precariously on the edge of the rooftop stood out starkly, framed the cool blue of the autumn sky. Maedhros froze, something that felt like alarm racing through his body as he recognized who the silhouette belonged to – or at least, one of two whom the silhouetted could belong to, for there were only two in Himring who were so small.

"Tittalundo, get down from there," Maedhros bellowed, striding forward until he was standing beneath the child making his perilous way along the small ledge between the slanting roof and a twenty-five foot drop. "Come down this instant," Maedhros ordered, planting his hands on his hips and glaring upwards in warning.

The child paused for a moment, then inched another pace forward, seeming to have ignored Maedhros's command. Maedhros scowled darkly.

The child stopped again, and then reached up towards a branch caught on a slightly upturned shingle on the roof. His fingertips just brushed the stick, sending it twisting farther away from his grasp. The child shifted, and then hoisted himself up, his toes leaving the ledge for an instant as he stretched.

His balance shifted, and with a startled cry, the child slid off of the roof. Maedhros moved on instinct, gauging the place where he had fallen from, where he would land, and how fast he was falling. Opening his arms, Maedhros dove the last few paces, catching the falling child just before he slammed into the hard, unforgiving earth.

The two tumbled to the ground, the child's momentum driving Maedhros down, whose balance had already been far from good. For an instant both merely lay there, the wind knocked cleanly out of them both, and then Maedhros was rising, dropping the child unceremoniously to the ground. He hit on his shoulder and rolled, coming up into a crouch, and then turned slowly to face Maedhros.

At last, Maedhros was able to see which twin it was. Elros. He should have guessed as much.

"What were you doing?" Maedhros growled, looking sternly at the elder twin. "Did you not hear me order you to come down?"

Elros ducked his head and scuffed his feet, his hands linked behind his back. "I am sorry, Maedhros," he muttered. "It will not happen again."

"And just what were you doing on the roof?" Maedhros questioned, his voice still dangerously low.

Elros hesitated, his boots stilling and the dust settling around them. "Just…looking around," he said at last, but would not meet Maedhros's gaze.

"You were 'just looking around' on the roof?" Maedhros asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Yes," Elros replied quietly.

Maedhros frowned. "What were you doing on the roof?" he asked again. "And I want the truth this time, Tittalundo," he added.

Elros sighed, and hung his head. "Elrond and I were practicing our archery," he mumbled. "But then one of the arrows got caught on the roof. I was trying to get it down."

So that was what the 'stick' that Elros had been trying to get was. Maedhros shook his head, and decided not to even _ask_ how the arrow had found its way up there in the first place.

"I see," was all that Maedhros said. "You will go without supper tonight," he announced, "for disobeying me. And Elros." Elros looked up, eyes wide, but mouth set into a resolute line. "I do not ever want to see you on that roof again, do you understand me?"

"Yes Maedhros," Elros replied.

"Good." With that Maedhros turned and left, continuing on down the path toward the stables – his original destination.

"Valar give me strength," Maedhros muttered under his breath as he walked, hearing Elros dash off around the corner of the house, likely to find his brother. "Maglor, why will you not simply _let them go_."

_Because doing so now will kill them_, a treacherous voice whispered in his mind. And he wasn't so sure that he wanted them dead any longer.

(Himring, Beleriand - F.A. 559)

Maedhros and Maglor stood on the crest of a small hill just at the edge of the drill field, watching Elrond and Elros spar. The Elf who had been teaching them sword craft had recently come to the two brothers, and told them that there was very little left for him to teach the twins.

"I have taught them all that I can," he had said. "They now must learn to truly fight, but to do that they will need to taste the fear of true battle, and deal death." And so it was that, two days after that, the two brothers found themselves at the practice field, watching the twins duel, to decide whether or not they were truly fit for battle.

At that moment, Elros lunged forward, twisting at the last second, and only just managed to slip past Elrond's defenses. Elrond skipped back, bringing up his own blade to block his brother's, but he was a fraction of an instant too slow. The tip of Elros's blade just caught Elrond's shoulder, leaving a long, but shallow gash in its wake.

Elrond stepped back and bowed to Elros, who copied the movement an instant later. Both were breathing hard, and sweat dripped down the sides of their foreheads. The blood that dribbled down Elrond's shoulder swirled and ran pink as it collected the perspiration that clung to his skin.

Elros clapped his brother on the shoulder, and grinned. "Good duel," he said. "I thought you had me there, when you caught me with the reverse crescent."

Elrond laughed. "I thought I had you as well," he retorted, twisting to shove his bloody shoulder against his brother. Elros danced away, lifting a hand to shove Elrond in return.

"I don't want your blood on me," he sniffed indignantly.

"Priss," Elrond retorted as they mounted the hill on which Maedhros and Maglor were standing.

As the twins reached the apex, they halted, and bowed their heads to Maedhros and Maglor courteously. When they looked up, however, their eyes were shining and both were smiling.

"That was an impressive duel," Maglor said. "You have learned well."

Elrond and Elros glanced at each other – a mere flick of the eyes – and pride shone in their silver eyes as they glanced back at Maglor. Such praise was not lightly given, a fact that Elrond and Elros were both very aware of. That made it all the more precious, however.

Maglor looked to Maedhros, who was watching the twins with an unreadable expression. At last he nodded, and met Maglor's eyes. Something passed between them, and Maglor nodded in agreement.

"Come with me, Elrond," Maedhros bade, starting down the hill. Confused, Elrond turned to follow, sharing a perplexed frown with his twin. Elros watched him go, crossing his arms over his chest, his mouth tightening into a thin line.

Maedhros led Elrond back onto the practice field, then unsheathed his sword as he turned to face the younger twin, who was still simply watching in confusion, trying to understand what Maedhros was doing. Understanding dawned on him an instant later, however, when Maedhros said, "Stand ready, Tittalundo."

Elrond brought his blade up, held vertically in front of him in the salute, his back ramrod straight. Maedhros mimicked his pose, and then sank down into a crouch, hazel eyes carefully sizing the youth up. Elrond too broke the salute, stepping back and widening his stance, bringing both hands to the hilt of his sword.

Maedhros attacked without warning, leaping forward to rain a savage set of blows against Elrond's guard. Elrond backed up under the fury of the assault, only just managing to parry or duck each of the strikes. He broke and spun away, rolling to the ground to escape a downward slash from Maedhros's sword. He came up in a crouch, sword at the ready.

Maedhros whirled, both surprised and pleased with the youth's agility. Elrond had always seemed to be the faster of the two, just as Elros was the stronger, but only now was Maedhros beginning to see just _how_ fast he was.

Maedhros struck again, driving Elrond back another step, and then another. His parries and blocks were becoming increasingly weaker and his breathing deepening – he was getting tired, his body already exhausted after dueling Elros for nearly a quarter of an hour straight. Maedhros grinned wolfishly and pushed relentlessly onward, driving the Peredhel back another step.

Again Elrond broke away, twisting as he spun, and jamming an elbow into Maedhros's side as he ducked to the side. Maedhros grunted, turning with the youth, and lifting his sword once more. He hesitated to attack, however, and for a long moment, Maedhros and Elrond simply watched each other, both pacing cautiously as they turned about one another.

It was Elrond's turn to attack. He struck, coming in low and fast. Maedhros parried his first slash, and then knocked away a thrust. Elrond leapt, bringing his blade slicing down to cut at Maedhros from above. He brought his blade up and blocked the youth, sending him staggering as his feet touched the earth once more.

Maedhros lunged forward, closing the distance between them and locking blades. Elrond was shoved downward as Maedhros used his superior height and leverage to force him down into a kneeling position. Elrond strained, vainly attempting to stand against Maedhros's pressure, or to break away – something, _anything._ Maedhros grinned again, reaching down and grasping Elrond's wrist, preventing him from pulling away.

"Yield," Maedhros hissed as Elrond's knees hit the grass. Elrond grit his teeth and shoved as hard as he could. Maedhros barely moved and inch. "Yield," Maedhros barked.

"No," Elrond grunted, and then he released the hilt of his sword, and then with his free hand, he punched Maedhros in the nose.

Maedhros stood up, a surprised cry forcing its way through his lips as his nose began to bleed. Elrond fell to the side, hid the ground, and rolled, rising to his feet with his sword in his hand once more. Maedhros was already nearly recovered from the blow, although blood was still trickling from his nose. Elrond attacked once more, this time coming in from the side, hammering blows against Maedhros's guard.

For just an instant, Elrond had the wild idea that he might actually manage to break through Maedhros's defense. His guard faltered, he stepped back, and his sword point dropped. But then it was as if a dam had been shattered, releasing a torrent of overwhelming strength.

Maedhros shifted, and once more he was on the offensive. He smashed blows against Elrond's blade, driving him back nearly to the edge of the field. There Elrond stood his ground, digging his feet into the earth, and refused to give any more ground. It was all that he could do to keep from simply being thrust over onto his back.

Maedhros twisted, bringing his blade in an arcing circle above his head and down to shoulder height. Elrond moved to block the blow, but at just the last instant the sword's path transitioned seamlessly into an upper cut. The flat of Maedhros's blade smashed against Elrond's near to the hilt, sending the sword flying out of the Peredhel's hands.

Maedhros lowered his sword point to Elrond's neck before he could make a move, the tip hovering just above the throbbing pulse of his jugular. He was panting, and Maedhros thought that he could see his arms and legs trembling slightly. Sweat dripped down into Elrond's eyes, but he did not move to wipe it away.

"Well fought," Maedhros said, removing his sword from Elrond's neck and sheathing it in one movement. "Well fought indeed, Tittalundo." Elrond bowed his head, and Maedhros could clearly see now that he was shaking from exhaustion and strain.

Elros swept onto the practice field, running to his brother and grasping his arm as Elrond looked like his legs were about to give out. Elrond put his arm around Elros's shoulders, and the stood like that as Maglor came down the hill as well, albeit at a much more sedate pace than Elros had.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" Maglor asked, eyes on Maedhros.

Maedhros smiled. "Yes, I believe I did," he replied.

Elrond and Elros looked from one foster parent to the other, confused. As Elros opened his mouth to ask, however, Maglor spoke, effectively silencing him.

"You two have finished your lessons with the sword. You will now join the other warriors in their morning practices. You will also now be assigned a patrol. It is time that you learn what it means to defend your home."

Elrond and Elros bowed, and they were grinning. "Thank you," Elros said, speaking for the both of them.

Maglor regarded them with a strange expression. "Do not thank me yet," he said softly. "Wait until after your first skirmish – after you have killed for the first time."

With that Maglor departed, retreating up the hill toward the path that would lead back to the main house.

Maedhros followed, but he paused for just a moment as he drew abreast of Elrond and Elros. Turning, he lay a heavy hand on Elrond's shoulder, and he looked squarely into the young peredhel's silver eyes.

"You have the makings of a great swordsman, Tittalundo," he said softly, "perhaps one of the greatest of your Age." He turned to Elros, but he had nothing further to say, although a very odd look crept into his eyes. With that he was gone, disappearing over the hill after Maglor.


	7. Day 7 - Círdan

**Rating/Warning:** K. None.

**Time frame:** Elrond and Elros are 5. This happens about 8 or 9 months before the Kinslaying, when they are then taken by Maedhros and Maglor.

**A/N:** Well, I've made it through 1 week! Just 3 more to go...Ai Elbereth, I dunno that I'll survive that much. Huge, HUGE thanks to those of you who have supported me this entire way so far. You are absolutely amazing!

Thanks to all of you who reviewed yesterday! We were so close to 20 reviews! We just didn't...quite...make it. Ah well. I'm still so very, very, _very_ thankful to all of you who did review! Charlotte2May, TheHouseWitch, Karakehribar, Lorinand, and Ithilethiel Peredhel - you all are spectacular. To those who have favorited/alerted, thank you for the support! To those who are mere readers, I hope that you find the chance to leave a few words about what you thought! Most importantly though, enjoy!

(Lastly, the story told in here is based loosely off of another story I read once. Kind of...basic premise, although the moral was different and stuff. Anyway, I hope you don't mind that I had that entire story in there! It was fun to write though.)

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**Day 7 – Something about a character you've never really understood**

**Círdan**

It is well known that Círdan was fast friends with Eärendil, even having apprenticed the young half-elven prince in the ways of shipbuilding. As Eärendil grew to full manhood, their relationship matured from master and apprentice to fast friends even unto the point that Círdan stood beside Tuor, Eärendil's father, on the day of his wedding to Elwing.

When Elros and Elrond were born to Elwing, Círdan made the journey from Balar to Arvernien, both to offer his own congratulations and blessing, as well as the High King's. When Círdan was first told the babes' names, a strange look passed over his face and clouded his eyes. Yet when Eärendil and Elwing asked him about it, Círdan merely shook his head and smiled. He never spoke of what it was that he saw or felt in that moment, yet never once did he mistake one twin for the other, even upon seeing them for the first time after their arrival on Balar following their release from the Fëanorians.

Círdan visited Sirion a number of times after the twins' birth, and he made a point of visiting Elwing and the twins, particularly whenever Eärendil was away. The twins adored the bearded Elf, clinging to his back as he would carry them up and down the docks, and clambering into his lap when he would attempt to read them bedtime stories. It was Círdan who first taught the toddlers how to swim in the ocean, for their father, for whom that joy would have otherwise been granted to, had set sail nearly four months prior, and would not return for at least another three – far too long a time to allow the twins, who were just beginning to get their legs beneath, to live by the sea without knowing how to swim.

When the Third Kinslaying occurred, Círdan, along with Gil-galad, led an army to defend the Havens against the sons of Fëanor. When they arrived, however, they found the great city of Arvernien burning, the streets rivers of blood, and the Fëanorians gone.

Círdan searched for the twins, going first to their house by the sea. What he found was smoldering timbers and blackened stone, and the entirety of the household slaughtered.

There was never any sign of the twins, nor of their bodies, and all who may have seen what had happened to them had been slain. None knew what had become of the children of Eärendil and Elwing, and so the people turned to the only option that seemed viable – that the twins had been slain and their bodies consumed by the flames. The Fëanorians were not known for taking captives, and all messages sent by Gil-galad to Maedhros and Maglor questioning what had become of the children was refuted coldly and dismissively.

Círdan was the first on Balar to meet the twins and know them for who they were. How it was that they managed to find and talk their way into the palace, Círdan would never know for sure, but he would always remember the moment in which a guard hurried into his study, and told him that two young Elves who claimed to be the dead sons of Eärendil and Elwing were waiting in an antechamber.

At first he had not believed the guard, and he had entered the room skeptical. But as soon as he set eyes upon the twins, standing side-by-side and dressed in the fine clothing of the house of Fëanor, he knew them for who they were. And the vision that had flashed before his eyes on the night that he had first met them once more flared in his mind, and once again he saw Elros with a crown upon his head, standing upon the prow of a mighty ship; and he saw Elrond standing with a circlet in his hair and a blue ring upon his forefinger, and he knew Elrond to be one of his greatest friends and allies.

(Arvernien, the Havens of Sirion – F.A. 537)

Elrond and Elros were both sitting up in bed when Círdan came in to wish them both goodnight and farewell. The fire had burned down low, leaving only a dull glow to permeate the room but for the single small candle that flickered on the bedside table. The curtains were drawn shut and the window closed against the chill of the autumn air.

"You two should be lying down and going to sleep," Círdan reprimanded the twins gently.

"I know," Elrond said, ducking his head. "It was just…"

"We just didn't want to be asleep when you came to say goodbye," Elros finished, mouth set in a firm line.

Círdan sat down at the edge of the twins' bed, and smiled fondly at the two children. "I would have woken you," he reminded them. "You know that I would not depart without saying farewell."

"We know," Elrond admitted, and then sighed.

"Before you go," Elros spoke up, "will you tell us a story? Please?" he begged. Elrond perked up, looking at Círdan with wide, hopeful eyes that mirrored his brother's.

Círdan smiled, but said, "Only if you agree to go to sleep directly after. Do we have a deal?"

"Yes," Elros said, nodding fervently, an action which was mimicked by Elrond.

"We promise," Elrond added.

"Very well then," Círdan relented, and settled back against the headboard. Elrond and Elros wriggled over to him, Elrond snuggling up against his side, and Elros laying his head down on his knee.

"A very long time ago, when the stars lit the sky both day and night, and Ithil had not yet lifted his head into the sky, there were three brothers: Feren, Norno, and Alve. These three brothers were exceptionally close, and those that knew them said that they had a special bond.

"It was said that each of these three brothers embodied one of the greatest traits of the Elves: strength, speed, and cunning. The eldest, Feren, was strength; the middle, Norno was speed; and the youngest, Alve, was cunning. They were loved by all, but not merely for their greatness, but also for their kindness, and their willing hearts. Always, they were willing to put the wellbeing of another above their own.

"Now, these three brothers belonged to the great lord Elwë's house, and when the time came for the Eldar to forsake their homeland and travel with Oromë to Valinor, these three brothers followed, for if they loved anything besides each other, it was their lord.

"The road was long and hard, and the three brothers proved themselves to their people again and again. Once, they drove off a pack of howling wolves that had been following the people, with using sticks, stones, and cunning alone. And later, during the heavy raining seasons of the spring, they found a way for the people to cross a river swollen into a raging flood. Feren, Norno, and Alve were the heroes of their people and of Elwë's house. Alas, this was not to last.

"The tale of Elwë meeting a mysterious maiden in the forest and falling entranced is well-known. It is told in many ballads and songs of how Elwë fell in love with the Maia Melian, and how the nightingales sang through the trees of Middle-earth for the first time for the Eldar to hear. And it is told how many of Elwë's followers long searched for him, but never could they find where he stood.

"Feren, Norno, and Alve were among those who went to search for Elwë. But alas, tragedy would befall them, and they would never again be seen by the Eldar, no matter the length of years.

"For you see, Feren, Norno, and Alve traveled northwards in search of Elwë, and there they found a dark, and imposing forest. The trees whispered strangely to their ears, and the earth felt odd. Yet the brothers forged ahead, for fear that some terrible mischance had befallen their lord, and they shuddered to turn back if such was the case.

"The woods were thick and dark, and the vines entangling. Strange eyes peered out at the brothers from every shadow, and an eerie whispering sang upon the still air between the trees. Moss clung to the trunks, and water dripped from the branches. Yet still, the brothers forged onward, piercing ever deeper and deeper into the sickened forest.

"At last they came to the utmost center of the forest. It was a large glade, and at the center of the glade was a hill. And on that hill stood a tall tower. It was fashioned from black stone that oozed, and there were no windows cut into the walls. The brothers could sense the evil coming from this tower, could feel it leaking out of the very stones.

"'What are we to do?' Feren asked. 'It will be simple enough to simply walk around this accursed glade. But Norno shook his head. 'What if Lord Elwë is imprisoned in the tower,' he said. 'We cannot leave him there.' And then Alve the Cunning spoke. 'I agree with Norno here, brother,' he told Feren. 'This place is evil, and it has tainted this forest. Even if Lord Elwë is not there, is it not our duty to rid the land of any darkness that we may?' His words seemed wise to his brother, and so they set forth into the clearing, and set their feet against the foot of the hill.

"They began to climb. But as they climbed, it seemed to them as if the hill grew both steeper and higher, stretching on for an eternity above them. Alve faltered first, and then Norno, sliding down the hillside for many paces before they could catch themselves. Only Feren kept strong.

"At last, Alve and Norno could go no further. 'Come,' Feren urged them. 'We are nearly to the crest!' But his brothers could simply not take another step. And so Feren turned back, and went to his brothers. And bearing them up, Feren carried them to the crest of the hill.

"Feren collapsed when they reached the top of the hill. Above them the black tower reached high into the sky, imposing, evil. Slowly, exhausted from the trial of climbing up the hill, the three brothers stood. And there before them was a simple wooden door leading into the tower.

"The brothers opened the door and went in. The inside was dark and dank, with water dripping down the stones, and collecting in pools on the ground. The only light came from guttering torches that burned in brackets every few hundred paces around the walls. And up, twisting into shadow high above, rose a winding staircase that hugged the wall.

"So up the stairs the brothers went, and as they climbed, it felt as if time began to slow. First Alve, then Feren stilled, unable any longer to break through the enchantment that slowed time and kept them still, unable to break free. Only Norno with his speed could continue on. And turning, when he saw his brothers frozen, he cried 'Come!' and then descended down to take his brothers by the hand. And he guided them up the stairs, leading and urging, lending them his speed.

"Until at last, they reached the top of the stairs. And at the top of the stairs was a single, ancient wooden door. The brothers opened it, and they entered the room on the other side.

"It seemed at first that an old man was sitting in an armchair by a table littered with parchment. Alve stepped forward to speak, to question the old Elf, or to urge him to flee, but then the old man turned, and his eyes opened. And there was not the eye of an Elf but rather a black, empty void, and when the not-Elf spoke, his voice was echoing with a thousand tones of a thousand people.

"'Why have you come?' the not-Elf asked. 'We have come to free this land of the curse that it lies under,' Norno replied, stepping forward. 'You fools,' the not-Elf said. 'By stepping into this tower, you have forfeited your life. For I know all the answers to the world, and I shall take your life into mine.' And the thousand voices screamed and laughed all at once.

"But then Alve stepped forth. 'I propose,' he said, 'a simple riddle. If you can complete the simple task that I give you, then you may have our lives without quarrel. But if you cannot, then we are allowed to go free.' 'Go free?' the not-Elf asked, 'I think not.' 'Then let me propose this,' Alve said, a sly smile in his eyes, 'if you can answer, then you may have our lives. But if you cannot, then we will have yours, to do with as we please.' Then the not-Elf laughed, thinking the Elf foolish, for his life and the lives of the others he had consumed were utterly warped and twisted, and would bring to destruction all that they touched. 'Very well, I accept,' the not-Elf cried. 'Tell me what is your riddle?'"

"'You say you know all?' Alve asked with a smile. 'I do, ask me anything,' the not-Elf laughed. 'Then tell me,' Alve said, 'what is something you don't know?'

"And the not-Elf screamed, for he knew he had been tricked, and the lives of the others flew out of him. They tried to overtake the brothers, but Norno with his speed caught them, and Feren with his strength bound them, and Alve laughed. 'Come, let us take these poor creatures far away, and return them to their homes!' he cried.

"And that, my children, is what they have done. They passed away, far out of sight and out of memory, on a quest to return the souls of those who had been taken."

Círdan finished, and looked down at the twins, who were curled up against him. Both were fast asleep. Círdan smiled, and then carefully moved them onto their pillows. Instinctively they snuggled together, burrowing deeper under the blankets.

Standing, Círdan leaned over and kissed both of them on the brow. "Farewell, little ones," he murmured, "until we meet again. And in the meantime, remember the lesson the story taught – only through working together will you accomplish your goal."

Círdan turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind him. A soft smile played at the corners of his mouth, and his eyes were filled with tenderness. He would look forward to seeing them again, and perhaps even taking them out onto his ship for a few hours.

But he would not see the twins again for thirty years.


	8. Day 8 - Elrond and Celebrían

**Rating/Warnings:** K. None.

**Time frame:** 1299 of the Second Age

**A/N:** A thousand thanks to Lorinand and (who I have been forgetting to mention! I'm terribly sorry!) for being my sole reviewers last chapter. I admit, I'm not entirely pleased with the way the last chapter turned out, and chances are I'll go back and rework it one of these days so that it includes more Elrond/Elros/Cirdan. I was writing it super late last night though (and by last night I mean morning), and I simply couldn't bring myself to go back and rewrite it - I'd already done that once. Anyway, excuses aside.

Please review? I don't know what you think of what I'm writing if I don't hear from you! Anything at all is fine, even just a simple "I do" or "I don't like it." To all of my followers and favoriters, thank you so much! To all of you lurkers - I hope you are enjoying thus far. And to everyone, thank you for reading!

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**Special Note: **And so at last I am revealing to you all one of my two major Tolkien canon infractions - when Elrond and Celebrian first met. (The other is Gilraen's death, but I'm sure I'll talk more about that later). A little bit of reasoning behind this decision: It seems to me strange that Elrond and Celebrian didn't meet until after Rivendell was founded (albeit shortly after), for he was one of the highest ranking nobles and (according to my belief) Herald by then, and Celebrian was the daughter of two of the most powerful and influential Elf lords of the age (of the world, really). It simply seems odd that they never would have crossed paths before. So…I'm moving their meeting to approximately 800 years earlier. The rest of the timeline is still the same - Celebrian and Galadriel come to Rivendell searching for Celeborn, Elrond and Celebrian don't marry until 109 of the First Age, etc. Oh yes, and also…I'm not a huge fan of Tolkien's romance (they saw each other and fell in love the end), so I'm making their romance a bit more interesting as well.

Please, don't hate me for this..._  
_

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**Day 8 – Something about your OTP**

**Elrond/Celebrían**

In 1299 of the Second Age, Gil-galad sent a missive to Celeborn and Galadriel, requesting that they journey to Mithlond to speak with him concerning a troubling matter. They obliged, for Gil-galad was a friend of old, and they would not deny him such a request.

The true purpose of this conference with Gil-galad was to discuss Annatar, for Gil-galad and Elrond distrusted him, and they were ill pleased that Celeborn and Galadriel had allowed him access to their city. They wished to counsel against this "Lord of Gifts," for there was a sense of foreboding in their hearts that would not be assuaged.

And so Celeborn and Galadriel came to Mithlond at the height of summer under the pretense of joining the High King for the celebration of Tarnin Austa (the Gates of Summer). And their daughter, Celebrían, accompanied them.

Celebrían had been to Mithlond only twice before, for Galadriel and Celeborn rarely journeyed to Mithlond, and when one of them did, Celebrían nearly always remained in Ost-in-edhil. The first time she came to Mithlond, Celebrían spent her tenth summer running through the palace and playing in the gardens; the second, she was nearing her third hundredth begetting day, and had come to accompany her mother on the long journey. Coincidentally, Elrond was away both times, the first to rout an Orc tribe that had infested the pass through the Ingalossë – the pass in the mountains above the mouth of the River Lune – and the second to be a messenger to an Edain settlement along the Baranduin River.

And so it came to pass that, in the summer of the 1299 year of the Second Age, Elrond first beheld Celebrían, and he loved her, just as she did him. But it has ever been said that love is a fickle thing, and such was the case in the tale of Elrond and Celebrían's romance.

Surprise and perhaps the faintest trace of fear stilled Elrond's tongue, and so he retreated behind the ever faithful mask of formality that was ever his friend. And Celebrían, who had found herself instantly and irrevocably attracted to him, was offended by his cold greeting. He had been her parents' friend since the War of Wrath, and had heard tales of him since her youth – both from her father, and from others who spoke of the King's cousin and Herald – and she had been anticipating meeting him. She felt snubbed, but most of all she was disappointed, especially in the wake of the unexpected and not entirely understood wash of emotion that she felt when she first laid eyes upon him, and so she responded in kind.

And so it was that a strange dance began between the two of them, that was driven as much by anger as by misunderstanding and not accepting that which lay within them. Neither could deny their attraction to the other – at least not to themselves, although they attempted to desperately – yet with every meeting, they seemed to come away with lower opinions of the other.

Celebrían thought Elrond a stiff, arrogant, and cold lord – emotionless, unfeeling, and unbending, one who would not break the rules even if they broke him, and who cared more for his title and his books than for people. Of Celebrían, Elrond thought her to be a spoiled, arrogant, and selfish child who expected to get her way in all things, and although intelligent, she used her keen mind to bend others to her will. It seemed to them both that, by some sick twist of fate, they had found someone who they thought beautiful, but loathsome all at once.

Gil-galad, Celeborn, and Galadriel all found the entire situation both surprising and baffling, for they had all expected Elrond and Celebrían to be friends. They attempted to smooth over their relationship, but nothing that they did seemed to work.

Many long and harrowing months passed, and through both an unusual and unfortunate series of events, the two of them at last began to understand – and accept – what they had refused to see: that they truly did love one another, and that it was a love that would transcend time. They would not, however, act upon that realized love for many long years – not until Sauron had been defeated, and the peace of the Third Age came to Middle-earth.

(Mithlond – S.A. 1299)

Elrond stood at Gil-galad's shoulder, watching from above as the company of horses passed through the palace gates, and began up the long, sloping drive to the main courtyard. Light glittered off of the guards' polished armor despite the dull grey cast to the day, the sun masked by a thin mask of shifting, eddying cloud, and pennants that two of the riders bore fluttered behind them, caught in the light wind that also plucked at Elrond's tunic and hair, sending the strands swirling about his face and shoulders. The wind carried with it the scent of sea salt and ocean waves, as well as the sweet aroma of blooming flowers.

Neither Elrond nor Gil-galad spoke as the riders approached. The clop of the horses' hooves as they drew near, the faint clink of armor, and the whispering of other members of the court that had come to greet the lord and lady of Eregion wreathed the two with noise, but about them there was only silence.

The riders came into the courtyard, and they pulled their mounts to a halt. With one fluid movement, the leader dismounted his dapple grey stallion, and then turned to hand down the woman who had ridden beside him.

Elrond smiled and followed Gil-galad as he stepped forward to greet the Celeborn and Galadriel. But then, from behind the lord and lady, Elrond caught a glimpse of a third and much slighter figure as they dismounted from a roan mare, and he wondered who else would be joining Celeborn and Galadriel in the welcome.

Celeborn bowed, and then clasped arms with Gil-galad.

"You are most welcome, Celeborn," Gil-galad smiled. "Your journey went well I hope?"

"Indeed it did," Celeborn replied, nodding. Then, as Galadriel greeted Gil-galad, Celeborn turned to Elrond.

"Welcome, Lord Celeborn," Elrond said formally, although those who knew him well could see the pleased gleam in his silver eyes.

Celeborn chuckled and gripped Elrond's arm. "Always so formal, young one," he noted. "But welcome indeed. I am pleased to see you again – it has been far too long."

Elrond smiled slightly and nodded his head. "Indeed it has," he agreed.

Celeborn released Elrond's arm, and then looked over his shoulder. With a smile he stepped back, and motioned for someone to come forward. The figure Elrond had seen dismounting came close, halting beside Celeborn.

"I do not think you have yet met our daughter," Celeborn said, as Galadriel and Gil-galad finished their greeting, and turned to face Elrond. "Elrond, meet Celebrían. Celebrían, this is Elrond, Gil-galad's Herald."

She was nothing like Elrond had expected. He had heard, of course, that Galadriel had given birth to a girl-child many years ago, and that they had named her Celebrían. Yet never had he dwelt for long on that fact, and he realized that, until this moment, he had never truly accepted that Celeborn and Galadriel were parents.

She was much shorter than either of her parents, her head coming to her father's shoulder. Long, silver-blonde tresses flowed unbound down her back, and she seemed to have inherited her mother's hair's waves and wont to curl at the ends. Pale blue eyes that gleamed like chips of living ice watched him carefully from beneath arching brows, and her delicate lips were quirked into a small, delicate smile.

Something very strange – a feeling, perhaps – stirred within him, uncoiling from the depths of his chest. He could not name it, but the bottle emotion burned his throat and lay heavily in his stomach. And suddenly, Elrond was struck with how beautiful Celebrían was. If anyone was more beautiful than Galadriel, then it was Galadriel's daughter, and Elrond knew that he would never again see another whose beauty would surpass Celebrían's.

_No,_ a treacherous, venomous voice whispered in the darkest recesses of his mind, beyond thought or understanding. _No, you are not allowed to love. Your heart has been broken far too many times already. Another time and it shall shatter. So you are not allowed to love this woman._

The fledgling emotion – was it love? – flared in his chest, and for an instant, his eyes blazed with a light none had seen before. But then whatever it was that whispered fear into his heart lashed out, sinking its claws and teeth into this new feeling, and the light in his eyes died.

Fear. Yes, he was afraid. But of what? Rejection? Or of acceptance? Of pain that could come? He did not know.

All of this flashed through Elrond's mind in less than a heartbeat, and never would he be able to put into words the myriad of emotions and thoughts that charged through his being in that instant. He would recall feeling confused, floundering, as if he was a man drowning and the sea he was drowning in was her eyes, pale and cold, yet warm all at once.

And so he did the one thing that he knew how to do. He allowed propriety and custom to take control of his body as his mind shrunk away from the painful barrage of conflicting emotion and baffling feeling.

Elrond bowed to Celebrían, his head inclined to the precise measure one would give the daughter of a visiting noble. "My lady," he said quietly, his voice civil and painfully formal. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance."

Celebrían curtsied, the smile that had graced her lips faltering ever so slightly. "As am I, my lord," she replied. She opened her mouth to say something more, but before she could speak, Elrond had politely turned away and extended a hand toward her mother.

Galadriel hesitated as she stepped forward to greet Elrond, noting the nearly frosty greeting that he gave her daughter. Yet when she looked at him, both in confusion and in warning, she caught a glimpse of his eyes behind the mask – always she had been the best at reading Elrond's true thoughts that he hid behind his walls, save for his brother – and she thought better of speaking. She glimpsed there confusion of his own, and some deep perturbation.

"Welcome, my lady," Elrond said, grasping Galadriel's hands and smiling slightly. His smile was detached and only have conscious, however, Galadriel thought. "It is good to see you again."

"As it is you," she replied, squeezing his hands. Her eyes met his for an instant, and Galadriel tried to see deeper into his thoughts, to seek out what was wrong. He broke eye contact and turned away before she could find what she was looking for.

"Come," Gil-galad said, turning so that he could face all four of them as he finished greeting Celebrían in turn, "let us go inside. I would imagine that you are tired from your long journey, and would like to rest."

The guards still mounted took their cue and swung out of their saddles, handing off their mounts to stable hands that hurried forward to lead the horses away to the stables. There, the horses would be unburdened, and the baggage that had been brought would be carried up to the appropriate rooms.

Gil-galad led the way up the broad, sandstone steps to the large, carven double doors that led into the main wing of the palace. The guards standing to either side of the doors opened them as they drew near, and with that they crossed into the palace itself.

The grand, echoing entrance hall was nearly empty when they entered. The lamps along the walls and the chandeliers were unlit, but the hall was far from dark. Huge windows lined the wall above the door. Some days, just after noon, when the sun struck the windows just right, the light that passed through the glass panes that were artfully cut and to fit together danced golden across the white-tiled floor, making it appear as if droplets of gold were twisting together across the tiles in nearly invisible patterns and shapes. Such was not the case that day, however, for the hall was filled only with silver-grey light that caused the tiles to gleam eerily. The vaulted ceilings soared high above, the painstakingly carved beams lost to shadow, as were the statues nestled into niches and onto ledges throughout the huge room.

Gil-galad turned down a side corridor, leading them farther into the palace. The lamps along the corridor were lit, filling the air with golden light that accented the rich colors of the carpet beneath their feet, and threw the etchings in the stone – vines and twisting flowers mostly – into high relief.

The corridor twisted around, then abruptly opened up onto another hall, although this one was much smaller than the Entrance Hall. A sweeping staircase stood at the other end of the hall, and to either side, nestled into the cozy nooks between the stairs and the wall, were a number of couches and chairs, and a cold fireplace set into the wall. Two corridors faced each other from opposite walls.

Two servants, one male and one female, were standing at the foot of the staircase when they arrived, conversing quietly. They fell silent as soon as Gil-galad spoke, however, and smiled as they stepped forward.

"Gathbar and Lengel will show you to your rooms," Gil-galad said, motioning the servants forward. "I look forward to hearing of Eregion at the feast tonight," he added by way of a farewell.

"And we look forward to asking you of the affairs here at court," Galadriel replied, perhaps a bit too sweetly – she knew of Gil-galad's view on court gossip, and knew that he would take her words as what they were: gentle teasing. She smiled, and then turned to sweep up the stairs, and Celeborn followed after a curt head nod.

Celebrían trailed after her parents, hesitating at the foot of the stairs. She glanced over her shoulder, and for an instant she thought that she had seen Elrond's eyes on her. But no, for he was turning away, his back as straight as a spear, and an air of cold indifference on him as he followed Gil-galad down one of the adjoining corridors.

Celebrían turned back and marched up the stairs. She did not know what she had expected when she had first met Elrond, but it was most certainly not _this_, and whatever _this_ was, she did not like it. She had been excited to meet him – had even perhaps dreamt of their meeting, if she was being completely honest with herself, for he was already a legend in his own right, and a friend of her parents – but the reality had been far more disappointing than she had ever thought possible.

_He is just so…cold,_ Celebrían thought as she topped the stairs. _I never thought of him as such from Adar and Naneth's stories, but…he is_.And that little flame that had burst to life at the sight of him burned all the fiercer, for now it was fueled by something more – resentment, and anger.


	9. Day 9 - Elrond and Gandalf

**Rating/Warnings:** Teen. Rated teen for violence.

**Time frame:** 2013 of the Third Age

**A/N:** Hallo all, and welcome to day 9 of the headcanon challenge! *pant pant* I'm actually quite amazed that I've managed to make it this far! Huzzah! Thank you SO very much to everyone who has thus far reviewed and/or alerted and/or favorited! It truly is wonderful to know that you are enjoying the story. To all of my lovely readers: I hope you too are enjoying it, and I would love to hear from you sometime. Special thanks to Fan, Guest, and TheHouseWitch for your reviews on last chapter!

A little bit of info for you: a brotp is about a bromance, a friendship, platonic love, a brotherhood. Think of Aragorn with every single man in the books. That's a bromance. Now, to be perfectly honest with you all, Elrond/Gandalf is not my brotp. However, it is in my top three, and my Elrond/Glorfindel and Elrond/Gil-galad bromances I have already talked about. Plus I really wanted to talk about Gandalf here, and I think this is really the only time he'll be around. This was also my first time writing dear Mithrandir (well, more than just dinking around with plots I never finish), so I sincerely hope I did alright!

And now, without further ado, I present to you the newest prompt!

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**Day 9 – Something about your brOTP**

**Elrond/Gandalf**

To most outside of Imladris, Elrond and Gandalf's relationship was distinctly unremarkable. They were acquaintances, or perhaps cordial friends, but few ever suspected a relationship deeper than that. There was the odd, unexpected quip, and the more observant of folk would note that, whenever Gandalf was in Imladris, he and Elrond would spend long hours in his study. However this was to be expected – Gandalf was well-known to be a guardian of Middle-earth – at least among the Elven-folk – as was Elrond, and it was expected that they speak and work together. Indeed, if any thought that Gandalf had a particularly strong bond with any of the Elven lords, it would be Galadriel. Even amongst other members of the White Council, this was thought to be the case. But it was not.

Elrond and Gandalf from the moment that they met had struck a friendship. It was inexplicable – although neither ever truly attempted to explain it, for both knew well that sometimes strange things happened for even stranger reasons – but undeniable. And as time progressed, those bonds of friendship deepened and grew, until they were as firm as the roots of the mountains.

It truly was difficult to explain their friendship. For one thing, they were not "brothers," as Elrond was with Glorfindel, but neither were they guardian or protector as Gandalf was to most others. They were equals. Indeed, for Elrond was one of the few that Gandalf truly considered to be his equal, despite the fact that both knew they were not.

But what was more, they trusted each other completely. They guarded each other's secrets and backs when times demanded such. And they could make each other laugh, even as the darkness closed in around them.

And truly, what more is there to a friendship than that?

(Hill country, some 40 leagues south of Rivendell – T.A. 2013)

The large fire crackled and popped, shedding light all throughout the small cleft in the hills. Rock walls rose up on either side, the two sloping jumbles of stone meeting at a point deep into the hill. Far above, the sky was strewn with a hundred thousand stars that lit the night sky like a thousand diamonds, and the moon was just beginning its descent.

The whickering and stamping of horses could be heard at the mouth of the cleft, and above, ringing the small ravine, stood the silhouettes of Elven guards armed with mighty bows, their glittering armor hidden from sight by dark cloaks. Other guards moved about in the shadows, restlessly pacing the perimeter, watching for the telltale glow of any eyes, and listening for the crackle of footfalls in bracken.

One of the guards broke away from the shadows, dropping down from a high stone and landing softly. He carried a bow in his right hand, and a quiver of swan feather-fletched arrows was strapped to his back. He paced toward the fire slowly, measuredly, as if almost afraid of what he would find there.

Two figures came into view on the far side of the fire, bathed in the red glow of the dancing flames. One was and Elf, lying prone and unmoving on the hard ground, and the other was what appeared to be an old man sitting by the first person's side, cloak pulled tight about his shoulders. The second figure also held a pipe between his lips, although it was unlit.

The Elf quickly knelt beside the two figures. His gaze went first to the Elf, taking in the long hair that had been tightly braided along his scalp in three places to hold the riven flesh and cracked bone of his skull together, the traces blood that they had not been able to wash away from his face, the myriad of bruises and cuts that dotted his pale skin, and lastly the edge of the white bandages wrapped around his chest from shoulder to hip that were just barely visible over the blankets they had piled on his unconscious body. The Elf bowed his head, and whispered a silent prayer.

"How does he fare, Mithrandir?" the Elf asked the other, who had glanced over as he had approached.

"Not well, I fear," the wizard replied, taking the unlit pipe stem from his mouth. He shook his head, his gaze falling to the unmoving Elf lord's face, and taking in the uncommonly pale skin and the closed eyes. "He treads dangerously close to the path to the Halls of Mandos. Tell me, is there any sign of the party from Imladris?"

"Nay," the guard replied, his voice tight with suppressed emotion. "Nay, but they will come," he said resolutely, and then stood. _Let us only pray that they come soon enough_. With that, the guard turned and disappeared, returning to his post atop the hill.

Gandalf remained sitting, and returned the cold pipe stem to his mouth. He puffed out of habit, and his teeth worried around the wood, just as he always did when he was concerned about something. And concerned he most certainly was.

"Hold fast for but a few more hours, Elrond," Gandalf murmured, although whether he said the words aloud, or in his mind, he would never be sure. "Stay with us, my old friend."

Gandalf reached out and gently touched Elrond's forehead, his fingertips just barely brushing the bruised flesh. He then closed his eyes, and began to search for his friend's fëa. He found it after a long moment, weak and growing dim, but still clinging to life.

_Hold fast, my friend,_ Gandalf whispered. _Help comes._

Gandalf's eyes opened, and his hand fell away from Elrond's forehead. He had done the same four times since the sun had set, and each time he reached out for Elrond, he found the Elf's hold on life weaker, his light dimmer. Gandalf sighed, and puffed at his pipe some more.

He had seen many things throughout his life, first as Olórin through the darkness before time, and the light of the two Trees, and finally of the sun and the moon; and then secondly as Gandalf, the Istari, and servant of the Valar come to Middle-earth in the Third Age. Yes, he had seen many things, but Gandalf knew that the events of the day before would plague his mind for the rest of time.

The sun was just rising above the horizon, setting the sky aglow in a beautiful display of violets and crimsons and gold. The trees whispered softly to one another as the dawn breeze tickled between their boughs, and the croak of frogs and the chirp of crickets began to dwindle, even as the birds began to sing raucously.

Gandalf smiled and began to hum to himself as he urged his faithful mare onward down the path. He was in high spirits, for he was only just returning from a visit to the Shire, and if all went according to plan, he should be in Rivendell by dusk. Yes, he was in high spirits indeed.

_A flash of panic and fury; a scrambled, indecipherable thought; an explosion of pain in the back of his head._

Gandalf fell silent, his senses immediately opening up to the world around and within, and his mind and body alike tensed, prepared for an assault. His hold on his staff tightened fractionally. And then he frowned, for as sheer instinct began to withdraw, he began to analyze what had just occurred. And he realized that he knew the feel of the mind that had touched his for that brief instant. Narya's hum, which was always present in the root of thought, quickened.

_Mithrandir._ Galadriel's normally calm and sedate thought-voice was taught and strained.

_Yes, I felt that as well,_ Gandalf replied. _You think it was Vilya…_

_Yes. Elrond is in dire trouble._ Gandalf seemed to sense a layer of bitter amusement with that thought. _This is not the first time I have spoken such words,_ she told him, answering his unspoken confusion.

_And the last time? _

_He nearly died,_ Galadriel replied, _and a war nearly lost. We must find him._

_I am barely a day's ride from Imladris,_ Gandalf informed her.

_Very good. I will send word,_ she added, and then her presence, surrounded by the gentle rush of water, faded away.

A sharp cry shook Gandalf from his thoughts. He looked down just in time to watch as Elrond's entire body went rigid. Then he began to thrash, throwing the blanket off of his body, revealing blood-soaked bandages from sternum to hips, reaching out with arms also bandaged to fend off imaginary blows. He cried out again, a sickening, heart-wrenching scream, and twisted violently.

"Peace, Elrond," Mithrandir said as soothingly as he could, even as he quickly reached down and seized Elrond's wrists. Bone grated as his broken wrist moved, but Gandalf did not release his hold on Elrond's arms. Leaning over, using his own weight to still the thrashing Elf, Gandalf spoke again, only this time he spoke with more than just words. "Peace, Elrond," he urged. "You are safe now. You are amongst friends."

Elrond fell still, and for an instant his eyes slid open, but only to reveal a glassy, fevered gaze. He twisted one final time, and then fell still once more, his eyes closing, and his breathing growing shallower.

Gandalf carefully released Elrond's hands, and then placed them down by his sides. Shaking out the blanket, he laid it back over the still peredhel's body. Above, many of the Elves had turned, tensed and prepared to go down and aid the Istar.

"Stubborn peredhel," Gandalf muttered, puffing once more on his unlit pipe. But the truth of the matter was that he was not entirely certain that Elrond's hallucinations were a sign of good or a sign of bad.

The horses were upon him without warning, circling ever tighter and tighter as they charged about him, their riders' weapons gleaming in the noonday sun. Gandalf did not react, but merely sat on his horse, staff still firmly planted against his stirrup, a small smile on his lips.

"Mae govannen," he called as the horses slowed to a trot, and then to a walk.

A horse pulled away from the rest, who halted shortly thereafter. The rider was a dark-haired Elf dressed in full armor, with a bow upon his back and a sword at his belt. In his right hand he carried a spear.

"Mithrandir!" the Elf exclaimed, drawing his mount up short and bowing his head. "Well met indeed. Your presence is most welcome, especially on this day."

"I seek Lord Elrond," Gandalf said, cutting straight to the point. He hoped that the Elf would say that the Elf lord was currently enjoying lunch with his family. But somehow, he did not believe that would be the case.

The Elf shook his head and grimaced ever so slightly. "As do we, Mithrandir. I fear that we have found you at a most inopportune time." The Elf's pale blue eyes shone with worry. "A large Orc pack has been seen roaming these lands of late, and it is not safe to travel unaccompanied for any. I would gladly provide you with an escort, however…"

"Where is Lord Elrond?" Gandalf questioned. "I believe you at least have some inkling, do you not?"

Another Elf urged his steed forward, until he was sitting beside the first. "Lord Elrond led the party out to dispose of this Orc pack three days past. We were hunting the beasts, when their tracks diverged. Lord Elrond took one half, and Aradvir," here he nodded to his companion, "the other."

"And where is Lord Elrond now?" Gandalf pressed.

"That we do not know," Aradvir replied tersely. "Avasath came to us not two hours ago, riderless, and her saddle stained with blood."

Gandalf's eyes hardened. Something terrible indeed had befallen his friend if his mare had left his side. "Come then, we have no time to waste," Gandalf announced.

Aradvir smiled grimly. "Our thanks, Mithrandir."

"Do not thank me yet," Gandalf retorted gruffly. "Wait until Elrond is safely with us once more."

A sudden stillness crept through the clearing, filling Gandalf with an odd sense of dread. Looking down to his friend once more, Gandalf was struck with just how silent and still he looked. His chest was not even moving…

"Elrond," Gandalf barked. The Elf lord did not stir, nor did his chest move even a fraction. "Codspoons Elrond," Gandalf cursed, "not yet." He reached out and put his hand to Elrond's forehead once more.

The thread of his fëa was so weak that for a long moment, Mithrandir could find nothing. But there! A tiny, nearly invisible thread of light that just barely clung to life. Gandalf snatched at it, putting all caution and thought of gentleness aside.

Narya hummed, filling Gandalf's thoughts with the song of flame, as she awoke to her brother. She could sense his presence, his close proximity, and she longed to call to him, to sing with him.

_Of course_, Gandalf realized. He reached further.

_Vilya,_ he called, and he felt Narya's song swell within his own mind. _Vilya, awaken. Your Keeper needs you._

A rush of air that stirred not a blade of grass, a fey laugh, and then a blaze of blue light. _You called sister?_ The voice was Elrond's, and yet not Elrond's, somehow wild and fey, yet ancient and filled with the song of the wind all the same. The voice came from Elrond, from some part of him, yet it was something more than him as well.

_Your Keeper needs you,_ Mithrandir repeated. But now he was not only Mithrandir, but also Narya, a wild, dancing, cavorting flame that twisted in the shadows and laughed with glee as they ran.

The fire rose behind them, and a soundless wind blasted through the small ravine. For an instant, any who had been watching Mithrandir and Lord Elrond would have seen a flare a light, both blue and fire red that mingled until they became one. But then as soon as they had come, the light, the wind, and the fire died, until it was only the fire burning among the logs, and the breeze whistling through the stones.

Gandalf's eyes opened, and he watched as Elrond drew in a deep, shuddering breath.

The Orcs had taken their prisoner to a cave in the hills. The cave itself was not overly deep, nor was it connected to any network of passages or other caves, and for that the rescuers were thankful – that would mean no nasty warrens or burrows that the Orcs could sneak through and come out from behind. But it also meant that being able to surprise the Orcs would be difficult, and that they could see all that the Orcs were doing to Elrond.

They were not questioning him, and for that Gandalf was thankful. It seemed that they had targeted him simply as the leader, and not as Elrond Star-child, Foe, and Elf lord. They were merely enjoying carving him to pieces, reveling in vengeance against their fallen kin. Of course, in some ways this was all the worse, for it meant that they cared little for keeping their prisoner alive but to inflict more pain upon them.

By the time they had reached the base of the rocky hillside into which the cave mouth was set, hidden by the thick undergrowth and the low trees, Elrond was screaming. Not often, and not the piercing shrieks of pure agony that the Orcs so loved to hear, but screaming he was.

The Elves held back for just long enough to signal up and down the line their intent to charge, and then they were moving, springing up the rocky hillside, blades and spears refracting the late afternoon sun hungrily. The fearsome war cries of the Elves rang through the hills that eve, and the stones sang with their righteous fury.

The Orcs rushed out to meet the Elves, the hillside cast partially into shadow by the sinking of the sun. Black arrows rained down from above as the beasts leapt from boulders and from behind stones, clawing and slashing at the Elves.

But the Elves would not be halted, no matter the cost. Even as the Orcs streamed forth, they scythed their way through the ranks, hacking flesh and rending limbs, vengeance of their own lending them strength.

And Gandalf came as well, wielding staff and sword alike. As he neared the cave entrance, he sent out his thoughts to Elrond, trying to sense where his friend was being held within the large, spacious cave. He sensed only confusion and pain, all of Elrond's normally lucid thoughts addled.

Gandalf fought to the cave mouth, and entered. Light blazed from the end of his staff, illuminating even the furthest corners of the cavern, and the Orcs hiding within squealed with pain and fear.

_Mithrandir! Fear, and more pain_. A final scream echoed through cave.

Gandalf struck forward, cutting down any Orc who came between him and where he now knew his friend was. Many of the Elves had joined him, and they cut clear a path, keeping the way from the back of the cave to the mouth free.

And there, at the utmost back of the cave, Gandalf at last found Elrond with two crossbow bolts through his wrists, pinning him to the wall, and an Orc standing over him with a bloodied scimitar raised, ready to deliver the final blow that would completely cleave the collarbone in two, and give a direct yet painful path to the heart. Already the blade had attempted to take that path once, if the broken splinters of bone protruding from his shoulder and the blood coursing down his body were any indication. Of course, there was blood nearly coating his entire body, so much so that he could not even truly be called naked.

With a bellow, Gandalf struck, knocking the scimitar from the Orc's hands with a blow from his staff, and decapitating the loathsome monster with a slash with his sword an instant after. The Orc stared in shock, and then fell boneless to the floor.

The neigh of horses, and then the clear ringing of an Elven horn shattered the pre-dawn stillness. Gandalf stood, turning toward the entrance to the cleft, and there he saw a company of riders approaching fast, their silver armor glinting in the light of the dying stars and the first streaks of dawn. And there, riding at their forefront, came a golden-haired warrior on a mighty, white stallion.

"Hold on Elrond," Gandalf muttered, crouching down once more and grasping his friend's fingers gently. "Help has come."


	10. Day 10 - Aragorn and Elrond

**Rating/Warnings:** K+. Rated K+ for references to violence and adult content.

**Time frame:** 2933 of the Third Age

**A/N:** Oh. My. Word. guys. You positively BLEW me away! 8 reviews in the last 2 days is more than I had ever hoped for. Thank you all so, so much! TheHouseWitch, Lorinand, jabberwocki, Charlotte2May, Guest, Reader, Elen-Silver Star, and Oleanne, you all are absolutely amazing. And special shoutout to jabberwocki - thank you so much for all of your sudden and awesome support! Oh yes, and also to wtraveler304, and elfwarrior96! To all who have favorited/followed of late, thank you so much as well! You are fantastic as well! And to all of my readers and lurkers, I hope that you are enjoying, and I'd love it if you'd leave a few words behind on your way out.

Next item of business: I didn't update last night. I realize this. This was for a few reasons. First and foremost was that I was at a movie night with my youthgroup for most of the night/evening. Second and also foremost is that my parents have decided that I have to be awake and up by 10 o'clock for the rest of the summer, which means no super late writing sessions anymore. *sigh* And I'd gotten barely 3 hours of sleep the night before, so I really needed to crash. Hopefully this won't happen again though!

Lastly: to the many of you who have asked me in the past few days - I am working on the next chapter of Poisoned Star right now. Actually, that's part of the reason this wasn't done yesterday - I was working on the chapter during the hour I had to write rather than this prompt. So soon! Hopefully another couple days at the most. But just for you all, I added a Poisoned Star reference into the story. Those of you who have read will understand the whole eye thing. Those who have not - you should still get it, just not any of the backstory.

And now I apologize for the EXTREMELY long A/N. And without further ado, here you are!

* * *

**Day 10 – Something about a canon relationship**

**Aragorn and Elrond**

When Aragorn was two years old, the Dúnedain village in which he and his family were living was attacked and destroyed by Orcs. It had not been their main village but rather a temporary shelter as they awaited the river – which had flooded severely that spring with snowmelt – to recede to a safe level. Because it was only a temporary safe house that had been intended only to house Rangers during the cold winter months when the high passes needed watching, those building the camp had not taken extra precautions against discovery. What protections had been given proved not to be enough, for late one night near the end of March, a force of Orcs poured down the mountains and into the camp, burning and slaughtering as they went.

There was little hope for survival or triumph over the tide of Orcs, and so Arathorn urged Gilraen to take their young son and escape. He went with them as far as the pastures, mounting his wife and his son on his own stallion, and then bade his two most trusted lieutenants to accompany Gilraen and Aragorn, begging them to swear their loyalty then and there to the future Chieftain. They did so, and just as the Orcs broke through the final defenses of the camp, Arathorn bade them to ride for Imladris to tell Elrond what had occurred.

The last sight Gilraen had of her husband on that earth was when she turned her head just before the horses passed beneath the boughs of the pines. She watched in utter shock as her husband was shot through the right eye with an Orc arrow.

Gilraen, Aragorn, and the two Dúnedain rode hard and fast, afraid that they were being followed, for they heard Wolves hunting in the night in the hills to either side of them. They pushed their horses all the harder for it – something that proved to be a bad decision.

On the third day of the eight day journey to Rivendell, a surprise spring snowstorm struck. Unable to see more than a few paces ahead of their horse's noses, and with the temperature dropping dangerously low (especially for a two-year-old fully exposed), the small group was forced to stop and make camp in a sheltered hollow. It was not enough, however, and two of the horses perished from the cold.

A small fire and combined body heat managed to keep the four humans and the remaining horse alive, but by the time that the snowstorm had spent its fury, the group was out of provisions. When they at last set out once more – now with only a single horse, and battling through three-foot snowdrifts – travel was slow and difficult, and although they attempted to hunt, there was little available. Most of the animals had either been frozen or had been driven down into their burrows by the blizzard and the following freezing nights.

Gilraen, Aragorn, and one of the Dúnedain began to fall ill. The Men with the old Númenórean blood rarely fell ill, however faced with both the extreme cold and the fact that they had been unable to dry themselves since the snowstorm had struck, coupled with the lack of food, weakened their immune systems.

The adults gave all that they had to keep the young child alive, and his fever ceased to climb, although the sickness began to move down into his lungs. Gilraen and the other Dúnedain were not so fortunate.

Providence, however, seemed to be watching over the young child, for on the ninth day – the fourth since the storm had broken – a host of Elven riders led by none other than Elladan and Elrohir, the twin sons of Lord Elrond, found the struggling group. They immediately took them in and formed camp, and Elladan, Elrohir, and the healer traveling with the squad attended to the ailing Humans. However the illness was far too savage for they alone to cure, for the fever had gone too high in the Dúnadan and in Gilraen. The Dúnadan died later that night, the fever destroying his brain.

Aragorn, however, began to show improvements under the twins' care. His fever began to lower, although it did not break, and he awoke from his delirium for long enough to be terrified at the sight of the Elves, for he had not yet met any of the Elder kindred.

Gilraen's health continued to decline, albeit much slower than it had before, and she clung tenaciously to life as the Elves brought her, her son, and the remaining Ranger swiftly to Rivendell.

Elrond met them at the steps, having received their messenger sent ahead by wing, and took Gilraen immediately into his care, ordering his sons to care for the young child who was still suffering from fever and coughs. By that point Gilraen was utterly delirious, and her fever at a nearly lethal level. He carried her to the healing wing, and there he did all that he could to fight the infection of her lungs.

It was not enough. Gilraen surfaced from her delirium just long enough to tell Elrond of her son's true identity, and what had befallen her husband, and to see her son for one final time. She died that night.

For the first few weeks, Estel (as he had been named by Elrond) was nearly inseparable from Elladan and Elrohir. He was terrified, suffering from the shock of losing both his father and his mother so close together, and still recovering from the last traces of the illness.

The sole remaining Dúnadan left soon thereafter, returning to his people in the North to secretly deliver the news that the young Chieftain was still alive, although he would not say where he was being kept hidden.

Estel was alone, and he turned to the only two he knew – Elladan and Elrohir, who had cared for him since they had found him and his mother in the forest. He could barely stand to be parted from them for more than a few moments, and although he rarely cried or screamed, he would get nearly sick with anxiety if they would be gone for more than an hour during the day. And so the twins would carry him with them practically wherever they went, whether it was to training, to dinner, or even into meetings. And Estel slowly began to steal the hearts of everyone he met.

As for Elrond, he showed the child every kindness, yet Estel seemed indifferent. He would nod or shake his head if Elrond asked him a question, or would watch the Elf lord with wide, silver-blue eyes, but never once did Estel speak, and never once did he purposefully reach out to touch Elrond.

And then, one night nearly four weeks after coming to Rivendell, something changed inexplicably. Midway through dinner, Estel slid out of his chair, crossed over to Elrond, and climbed into his lap. He refused to move from Elrond's touch for the remainder of the night.

And the child that Elrond had taken in to foster him, just as he had every other child of the Chieftain, this miracle, began to bring something back to the Valley that had been missing since Celebrían's capture – first to Elladan and Elrohir, then the household, and then at last to Elrond himself.

And Estel became Elrond's third son.

(Rivendell – T.A. 2933)

A quiet shuffling at his door was all that was needed to bring Elrond out of sleep. His eyes slid into focus and his mind automatically went onto the alert, listening for whatever had awoken him. The rustling came again, only this time it sounded like quiet footfalls.

Elrond sat up with a small sigh and, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he reached into the drawer of the bedside table and struck a match, using it to light a candle. "You may come here, Estel," he said softly. A head topped with unruly black curls peered around the end of Elrond's bed, the wide silver-blue eyes blinking slowly. Slowly, the boy stepped around the bedpost, and then came forward, bare feet muffled by the carpet beneath him. "What are you doing out of bed at this hour?" Elrond asked as Estel stopped a few paces away.

"Had a bad dweam," the two-year-old mumbled, shuffling his feet uncomfortably. When he had first come to Rivendell, nightmares had come to him often – nearly every night – but as time had passed and he grew more secure in this new place of safety, and began to feel more loved by his adopted family, his night terrors had begun to fade. Now, in the chill month of November, he rarely had them any longer, only a little more than most children his age.

Elrond sighed again and opened his arms, inviting Estel to climb into his lap. The child did so without hesitation, and Elrond helped him by picking him up when he neared. Cradling the child against his chest, Elrond settled back onto his bed, then leaned against the headboard, pillows at his back. Estel snuggled against Elrond's chest, and his thumb crept toward his mouth.

"Would you like to talk about the dream?" Elrond asked after a long moment, and he could sense that Estel had calmed down somewhat.

Estel shook his head vehemently, and Elrond could feel him tensing again as his mind brought back whatever terror he had lived. Murmuring soft, soothing words, Elrond began to stroke Estel's hair, long fingers working through the knots in the thick hair. Estel sniffed, but began to relax again.

Elrond began to hum, his soft tenor weaving through the air. Slowly the hum gave way to words, and the words writhed and twisted about one another seamlessly, the liquid language of the Elves liltingly beautiful.

_Hush my child,_

_Heed no fear _

_Here in my arms,_

_As darkness fades_

_To silver lanterns,_

_And fairy lights_

_Dance above._

Estel's head drooped, his breathing evening out as he slipped toward sleep. The lullaby ended, and Elrond carefully cradled Estel in his arms, and stood, ready to take the child back to his own bed.

Estel stirred, looking up at Elrond with half-lidded eyes. When he stood, however, and moved toward the door, Estel tensed and reached out. He grasped a fistful of Elrond's sleep shirt, and his silver-blue eyes widened.

"Ada," he whimpered, sounding both desperate and afraid, and he clenched his fingers all the tighter. "Pwease Ada," he begged, "can I sweep wif you tonight? I'm still scared," he added.

Elrond had stopped instantly, frozen, and unable to think or react. _Ada_, Estel's voice whispered. _Ada_. _Daddy_. Estel had never called him that before.

_But he is your son, isn't he?_ a voice whispered in Elrond's thoughts. _You love him as such, don't you?_ He already knew the answer to that.

"Ada?" Estel mumbled. "Pwease?"

Wordlessly, Elrond turned back to his bed and climbed in. Settling his son down on the mattress beside him, Elrond reached over and snuffed out the candle, then lay down as well. Estel snuggled up against him, the fear and the tension causing his little body to tremble as he curled up against his father's chest. Elrond leaned down and pressed a kiss against the top of Estel's head, then pulled the blankets over them both.

Silence descended, although Elrond continued to stroke Estel's hair. He thought the child almost asleep, when Estel rolled over, and opened his eyes to look up at his father.

"Ada?" he asked.

"Yes my son?"

Estel hesitated. "Are you gonna go 'way?" he asked at last. "Like Momma and Poppa?" Elrond's heart constricted painfully. That was most certainly not what he had expected to hear.

Wordlessly, Elrond pulled Estel into a hug. Oh how he wished to be able to promise his child that he would never abandon him. But he knew that he could not, for life was unjust and cruel, and if there was one thing that Elrond had learned from life, it was that death was a constant companion, and always seemed to strike where you least hoped.

"I will stay with you for as long as I can," he said at last. "I promise."

"The…the monsters that killed Poppa," Estel pressed on, his voice now barely more than a whisper. "Will get you?"

Again, Elrond was silent for a long moment, unsure of what to say. "Why do you ask this?" Elrond spoke at last, asking a question of his own.

Estel shifted, and then shivered, snuggling closer. "My dweam," he said. "You…you…" he struggled to find words to describe what he had seen. Elrond hushed him, holding him close, and rubbing his back.

"Hush my son, you need say no more," Elrond murmured. "You are safe here, as am I. I can promise you that."

"One of the monsters," Estel blurted out, "he had gowd eyes." Elrond's breath caught – he had known of only one Orc to have golden eyes, and those golden eyes still visited him in nightmares. Estel shivered, and he seemed close to tears once more. "He said something to me, but I dunno what."

"Peace, Estel," Elrond said, regaining control over his own emotions, and kissing Estel's head once more. "I have known of only one Orc to ever have eyes of gold," he forced away the image, "and he is gone forever. I promise you, he will never touch you."

"You pwomise?" Estel asked, sounding very, very small.

"I promise."

Estel sighed, and then somehow managed to snuggle even closer, if that was possible. Elrond held him close, imparting warmth and comfort into the small body pressed to his chest.

"G'night Ada," Estel mumbled, already close to sleep.

"Good night my son," Elrond replied softly. And Estel slept.


	11. Day 11 - Tom Bombadil and Elrond

**Rating/Warning:** K. None. Although it's kind of sad I guess...

**Time frame:** the last year of the Third Age, shortly before the Ringbearers set sail. The Elves are crossing through the Old Forest on their way to the Shire, where they met Frodo, Bilbo, and company.

**A/N:** Well...I'm honestly not entirely sure what to make of this chapter. First of all, writing Tom Bombadil terrifies me, so there's that. And also, I'm not entirely sure that this headcanon is completely 100% cemented yet. It's possible it'll change. Probable it'll change at least some. _Possible_ it'll disappear. We'll see. I like it in and of itself though, so I'm keeping it. Oh yes, and Iarwain Ben-adar is Tom Bombadil's Elvish name.

And...okay I just can't hold it in. YOU GUYS ARE SO AMAZING AND WONDERFUL! SERIOUSLY! 8 reviews in the last 24 hours is simply stunning and spectacular and thank you all so much! Jabberwocki, Lorinand, Reader, Kellen, Raynagh, and TheHouseWitch, here's to you. I'm still working on personal replies, but they're coming, I promise! To all who have favorited and/or alerted, I'm glad to see that you're enjoying too! To all of you readers and lurkers - I hope you are enjoying as well. And I'd love to hear from you sometime. *grins* Most importantly though, is that you enjoy!

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**Day 11 – Something about a non-canon relationship**

**Tom Bombadil and Elrond**

Iarwain Ben-adar, or Tom Bombadil as he would come to be known to the Shire folk, was never particularly invested in any affairs but his own. There were, of course, a few exceptions, however for the most part, the odd being who none save perhaps the Maiar and the Valar understood kept to himself, and allowed the events of the world unfold about him. It was not that he did not care for the world, nor even that he was unwilling to involve himself with the world. He simply did not care to meddle.

As mentioned before, there were a few exceptions throughout the ages, and one of those was Elrond.

They met for the first time near to the beginning of the second age, nearly two hundred years before Elrond was named Gil-galad's herald. He and a small escort had been traveling through the land that would later be known as Arthedain, bearing a message from Gil-galad. There they were set upon by an Orc pack mounted upon Wolves – one of the smaller groups that had survived the War of Wrath, and had hidden away so as to not yet have been exterminated.

It was little more than a stroke of luck that saved Elrond from death that day. He was struck in the head with a club, the blow fracturing his skull and leaving him with a dangerous concussion, and he passed almost upon impact. His horse, not knowing what else to do with her rider hanging over the edge of the saddle and just barely still on her back and the Wolves all about, turned and fled, bearing him toward the place of safety that she could sense upon the wind.

That place of safety was a grand and wild forest. It was there that Iarwain Ben-adar found them, Elrond lying motionless upon a bed of thick grass dotted with wildflowers, and his ever-faithful mare standing close to him, grazing.

Iarwain Ben-adar took Elrond home to Goldberry, and together they brought the young Elf back from the cusp of death. Upon awakening, however, Elrond had no recollection of who he was – name, parentage, or any of his past. He remained with Iarwain Ben-adar and Goldberry until his memories returned.

After that, Tom Bombadil appeared at random times in Elrond's life. It was chance, mostly, that would bring them together, but there were a few times in which one would seek out the other – and most often it was Elrond seeking Tom Bombadil. After Rivendell had been founded, Iarwain Ben-adar and Goldberry came to the Valley a few times over the course of an age and a half, making it the only Elven land that they came to willingly, and joyfully.

As to Elrond and Tom Bombadil's relationship…well, it was nearly as difficult to describe as Tom Bombadil himself. They were friends indeed, and in Elrond, Tom Bombadil could draw out the most peculiar, nearly childish side to his personality. And it was said that, when with Elrond, Iarwain Ben-adar would show a respect and care that he granted to few others, as well as a peculiar sort of love.

In the eldest of days, you see, before even the Firstborn had awoken beneath the stars, when the Valar were first come to the land to which they were bound and their servants and followers with them, a young hand-maiden of Estë met a spirit of the world, and the two became friends. And in Elrond, Iarwain Ben-adar saw the blood of Melian, and he cared for the descendant of his old friend.

Of this, however, Elrond had only an inkling. All that he knew was that, when Iarwain Ben-adar would come to him, or him to Iarwain Ben-adar, there was a feyness that took his mind, and his blood ran hot like with none other.

_(The Old Forest – T.A. 3021)_

The company had halted for the night, and set up camp alongside the Elven road that wound between the mighty trees. Fireflies darted between the trunks, lighting up the dusky blue of the night beneath the leafs and branches of the trees, which masked the stars as they began to appear, blazing forth out of the velvety blue darkness, and the moon alike. The gentle chirrup of crickets and the croak of frogs joined the barely audible wisps of wind, creating a gentle, natural lullaby.

The Elves lifted their voices in song as the moon rose, shedding its crystalline light across the land, and gilding leaf and limb with silver beams, and for long into the night they sang and danced, reveling in this beautiful night – one of the last nights they would spend in Middle-earth, even unto the Breaking of the world. It was their way of expressing their final love for the land, and in saying their farewell.

There were two, however, who did not join in song. Galadriel and Elrond stood together at the edge of the camp, hidden by the shadows beneath the trees, simply watching and listening. At last Elrond turned away and disappeared deeper into the forest, for he yearned for silence and for peace. There was an ache in his heart, a thorn that would not seem to pull free, and the song and sight of the others only served to make it burn all the more.

Wending his way between the trunks, following invisible paths through the shadows lit only by the faintest gleam of moon overhead and the occasional flare of light from a firefly, Elrond meandered deeper into the forest. He had little fear of the trees, even in the darkness of the night, for he knew them, and they knew him – at least, they had known him, so many years ago.

A small brook ran between the trees, glinting silver and blue in the starlight. Elrond sat down upon the grassy bank, crossing his legs, and listening to the chime of the water as it ran smoothly over pebbles and stones. The sound reminded him of his own Imladris, and a pang of loss lanced through his heart.

"Hey ho, I thought that I might find you here." The voice was quiet, and laced with something very near to cheerfulness. Elrond looked up to see Tom Bombadil stepping out from the shadows, and it seemed as if the thick bushes parting for him to pass through undisturbed.

Elrond smiled and stood, turning to the odd little man. "Aiya, Iarwain Ben-adar," he said, bowing at the waist and placing his hand over his heart.

Tom Bombadil laughed lightly, and came to stand beside Elrond. "Greetings to you as well, Elrond," he said. "Come, you should walk with me." With that, he turned and started down along the brook, Elrond following.

"Why have you come?" Elrond asked softly after a long moment of silence, in which they listened to the whisper of the wind and the chirping of the crickets.

"Why, I would have thought that was clear," Tom Bombadil replied. When Elrond did not reply, Iarwain Ben-adar chuckled. "Age has clouded your mind, it would seem," he laughed, but then sobered abruptly and surprisingly. "I have come to say farewell," he said, "for I do not think that you and I shall meet again."

Elrond turned to look at the old man and frowned, then halted. "But…"

"Nay, child," and Elrond noticed a strange look in Iarwain Ben-adar's eyes – it was age, and the weight of thousands of years and endless time. "We shall not meet again, I think, even at the end."

Elrond looked away, a fresh sear of pain of loss opening in his heart. He had known, in his heart that this farewell would one day come. But that did not make this moment any less painful. He felt painfully close to weeping, although his eyes burned dryly. He had not shed a tear for many a year, and he did not intend to do so now.

"Merry dol, hi ho, do not weep, Elrond, for not all is lost and come to ruin. What is your heart telling you?"

"That this Age has ended, and it is my time to depart from this world," Elrond answered. Iarwain Ben-adar shook his head ever so slightly, and the faintest echoes of a whistle fell from his lips. Elrond sighed. "It hurts," Elrond confided at last. "It feels as if it breaks within my chest. I have lived in this land since my birth. I have loved this land, and found love in this land. I have bled, and watched my own bleed and die. My children were born here, and at least one child will die here. But my time here is over – I have fulfilled my duty, and I must go on."

Tom Bombadil waited patiently, a knowing smile on his face. "And…" Elrond hesitated. "My heart yearns for the sea. As much as I will lose, I am ready. She calls to me from a distant shore, and it grows stronger with each passing day." Elrond looked up.

"Aha!" Tom Bombadil cried, and he danced forward to grasp Elrond's shoulders. "So you see, young one, there is still joy in your heart! Love is a healer of all things, given time."

"Yet it still is hard," Elrond said.

"Trolly dol, of course it is," Iarwain Ben-adar retorted, "but that is what makes life worth living. Yet you must not let it pull you down! You hold too fast to this land, Elrond. You must learn to say farewell."

"And how do I do that?" Elrond asked, eyeing the old man.

Tom Bombadil laughed, and then lifted his feet and began a sprightly jig. "Come, dance with me child, one final time.

Elrond was reluctant at first, his heavy heart weighing his feet. Yet slowly first, and then gradually faster, he began to follow Iarwain Ben-adar in the ancient dance. It was the first dance that Tom Bombadil had taught him, all those many, many years ago, when his memories were gone, and he knew not who he was. And that single memory seemed to open a floodgate, until it felt as if the memory of every happy moment, of every dance, of every joy and sorrow was crowding his mind, and he knew not whether to laugh or to weep. And when he and Iarwain Ben-adar at last finished the dance, both panting, Elrond found that, although the pain was still there, it was not quite so crushing as before. He felt at last that leaving the shores would not tear his heart to shredded ribbons.

"And now, it is time, I think, for me to wish you farewell," Tom Bombadil said. He smiled gently at Elrond, and then placed a hand on the Peredhel's shoulder. "It has been a joy to me to know you, child of Melian," he said. "And when you see your first-mother, tell her that the nightingales still sing her name. And now, farewell!"

Tom Bombadil turned and, with a hop he jumped across the brook, and then disappeared into the forest, the shadows swallowing him whole.

"Namárië," Elrond whispered as the rustling of the shadows faded. And Elrond knew that he had seen the last of Iarwain Ben-adar, the oldest and the fatherless.


	12. Day 12 - Elrond

**Rating/Warning:** K+ for mild violence

**Time frame:** All over the place. But I think I've pretty much covered everything earlier, or else in the story itself there are enough clues. Just recall that the War of Wrath starts in 545 of the First Age.

**A/N:** Guys, yet AGAIN you've managed to wow me with all of your support! Thank you, thank you, thank you so much to each and every one of you who have favorited/alerted, reviewed, or even just read. Shoutouts to Raynagh, Mockingtale Bright, Lorinand, Reader, nosmaeth, 5SecstoThrowItFB, Oleanne, and Jabberwocki for your reviews! I love hearing from you so very much, and I promise I'm getting to replying to all of them! I'd love to hear from any one of you, dear readers and/or followers, just to know what you think! Enjoy!

Oh, also you should know that this very well may be one of the oddest pieces I've written in fanfiction to date. And by that I don't mean outside the box, just...weird. The first draft came out ridiculously slashy/incestuous, which was MOST DEFINITELY not the point. But...yeah. So if that's what you think, don't go there. It's not at all what I meant at all. (And yes, I purposefully said "at all" twice. That's how much I mean it). But yeah.

Oh, and happy 4th of July to all of my fellow Americans!

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**Day 12 – Something about sleeping habits**

**Elrond**

Elrond always had a tendency to sprawl when he slept. Unlike some, he did not have a preference to sleep on his back or his stomach, arms beneath his head, or curled up. He would simply stretch out, inadvertently taking up as much space as he possibly could. It was noted by many that he had the unique ability to take up however much space was granted to him, yet appear as if he was lounging comfortably. Well, perhaps not quite so unique for Elros was the same way. Ironically enough, this also granted them the ability to sleep comfortably in extraordinarily tight spaces as well – they simply claimed as much space as they could, whether it was a large, four poster bed, or a narrow crack between the walls. This made sharing sleeping spaces very interesting for the others.

Elrond also learned how to be able to sleep whenever and wherever, although this ability came with age and experience. When he was younger, the only way that he could sleep was if he was touching Elros, and it was the same for his brother – Elros had to be touching Elrond. Until they were well into their teens, the twins would refuse to sleep in separate beds, and if they were separated, neither would sleep well, if at all. It was only when they were in their twenties that they at last began to sleep separately consistently, although there were still nights – usually if one of them was injured, or afraid, or had been gone for an extended period of time – that they would sleep together, usually back-to-back.

It was after the twins were assigned to patrols, and they began to learn the lessons of battle and of war, that they began to learn to adapt to sleeping conditions. In all honesty, they acclimated and learned better than most, especially Elros. Others in their squads would look on at the twins in jealousy as they sprawled out, side-by-side if they were on the same patrol, asleep no matter the weather – rain, snow, wind, or even bright daylight – and seemingly as comfortable as could be, although they often wrapped themselves tightly in their blankets to keep from simply sprawling.

When Elrond first married Celebrían, she found this habit of Elrond's intriguing, and not entirely unwelcome. Perhaps because of it, or because he had spent the first sixteen years of his life snuggling against his brother, he was a very good cuddler. Truly, as odd as this may sound to say it of an Elf lord…there was no other way to put it.

Despite this, however, Elrond was always a light sleeper, and even moreso after the War. In this, he and Elros were very different, for Elros was nigh impossible to awaken in the dead of night. Indeed, Elrond was one of the few who could bring him out of slumber without resorting to physically dragging him from bed or slapping him awake.

Elladan and Elrohir were, as in so many other things, very similar to their father and uncle in this regard. Yet they both were much sounder sleepers than Elrond ever was – although not so dead to the world as was Elros's wont – and it took them far longer to learn to be able to simply sit down and go straight to sleep.

But such was the way of the world in the Third Age by comparison to the First, and Elrond did all that he could to ensure that was the case.

(Arvernien, Sirion – F.A. 532)

Elwing entered the room quietly, sheltering the candle flame with one hand so as to not shine any unwanted light upon the two slumbering infants lying together in the cradle. Carefully she set the candle down on the low table by the door, and then crossed the room to peer down at her sons.

They slumbered peacefully, their faces thrown into sharp shadows as only the barest hint of red-gold light leaked over the railing. The twins lay with shoulders nearly touching, but Elros had reached over – in sleep or when awake, Elwing could not be sure – and had grabbed his brother's hand. Elwing could just make out Elrond's fingers curled around the edge of Elros's hand.

Elwing smiled, and leaned down to plant a tender kiss on Elros's forehead. She did not kiss Elrond, however, for she had learnt quickly that even such a slight, tender touch would awaken.

"Good night, my sons," she breathed, "sweet dreams."

_(Arvernien, Sirion – F.A. 533)_

"Good night Elrond." Eärendil leaned over and kissed Elrond on the forehead, then stood. "Sleep well."

"G'night Ada," Elrond replied, nestling down amid the blankets piled on his bed. Eärendil smiled, and then shut the door behind him as he left, shutting out the light from the hall.

Elrond sighed and wriggled around, trying to get comfortable. It was his and Elros's first night in their new bedrooms, and all very exciting. All the same…But no, Nana and Ada had talked to them about being big boys, and how big boys had their very own rooms. _I don't need to share a room with Elros anymore_, Elrond thought proudly. But all the same…he felt very cold. And lonely.

Elrond turned over onto his side and stretched out, still trying to get comfortable. It wasn't working. The night stretched on, and still Elrond couldn't sleep. He tossed and turned, but he couldn't seem to settle down. He felt restless and wide awake, as if there was something missing.

Something moved at Elrond's door, and he sat up quickly. Turning, he watched the door warily, waiting for it to make another sound. It groaned, and then began to inch open slowly. Elrond stiffened, his breath quickening as all sorts of horrid thoughts flashed through his mind – monsters, ghosts, wolves.

"El?" Elros stepped hesitantly into the room, looking at Elrond with wide silver eyes. "El, you 'wake?"

"Yes, I'm 'wake," Elrond replied in a whisper, highly relieved.

Elros, now much more confident, pushed the door closed and then trotted over to Elrond's bed. He climbed up onto the mattress, and Elrond scooted over to give his brother room. Without preamble, Elros wriggled under the covers.

"It was cold," he mumbled, "and lonely. And something was scratching at my window."

Elrond smiled, and then snuggled down under the blankets again, head falling to the pillow. Elros followed suit, then rolled over onto his stomach. His and Elrond's shoulders were just touching.

They were both asleep within moments.

_(Himring – F.A. 538)_

Maglor paused as he passed by the door that led to the twins' new room, and listened closely. They had arrived in Himring only that afternoon, and this was the children's first night in the keep. Whatever he had expected to hear, Maglor did not hear it. For indeed, he heard nothing at all.

Maglor frowned, and then pushed open the door. He stepped inside, but held the door open just a crack, allowing the lamplight from the hall to filter into the room. It was an unneeded precaution, however, for the light of the moon bathed the room in silver.

Maglor's eyes fell on the bed by the window, and he felt an odd pang of sorrow pierce his heart. For there, lying together beneath the blankets, sprawled out and taking up the majority of the bed, legs and arms tangled, lay the twins fast asleep.

Maglor turned away, battling bitter grief, for he could recall his own brothers, Amrod and Amras, doing the exact same so many, many years ago. Back when the world was still mostly free of evil. Maglor's lips twisted into a small sneer. Oh no, there had been evil then too, he recalled. It had just been a different sort.

It had only been subtler then.

_(Wilds of Beleriand – F.A. 562)_

One of the guards on watch threw another branch onto the fire, sending up a flurry of sparks. Something moved behind him and he turned, lifting his bow. Then he chuckled lightly.

"You gave me quite the fright, Baragallon," the sentry announced, returning the arrow to his quiver, then stepping forward to clasp arms with the newcomer.

Baragallon smiled as well, nodding in response to the sentry's words, and then sat alongside his friend. "It has been quiet tonight, do you not think, Cúvadhor?" Baragallon murmured quietly.

"Indeed," Cúvadhor agreed, and then grimaced. "Too quiet, to be honest. The scouts said that these woods were swarming with Orcs, yet we have neither heard nor seen hide or hair of the foul beasts." He shook his head.

"We can only watch and wait," Baragallon sighed, his right hand going to his sword belt, thumb rubbing the pommel of a sheathed dagger. "Watch, wait, and be prepared when whatever comes our way presents itself."

Cúvadhor snorted. "Be prepared?" he muttered scathingly. "I still do not understand why Commander Magondir assigned us the newcomer. That youth is barely thirty years of age, yet they have assigned him to a squad." The raven-haired sentry shook his head. "It is folly. I do not care if he is the King's cousin."

"He has trained," Baragallon countered. "He would not be here if he had not."

Cúvadhor shook his head. "He clearly knows nothing of the way of war, though." He glanced at his companion. "Have you seen how he sleeps?" Baragallon shook his head, and Cúvadhor snorted. "He wrapped himself tightly in his blanket and was asleep within a moment," he explained. "Tell me, who but a youth who has no inkling of what may pounce on him in the night could do so?"

Baragallon shrugged, and then leaned back against a log. "You do not know him yet," he said simply. "You should wait to judge him until you know who it is you judge."

Cúvadhor shook his head and opened his mouth as if to say something, but then froze, listening intently. He stood, drawing an arrow and fitting it to his bowstring, then stepped away from the fire. Baragallon sat up, hand going to his sword hilt, peering around and listening intently for whatever it was that had alerted Cúvadhor.

"Something draws nigh," Cúvadhor hissed over his shoulder. "Awaken the others, but do so quietly." Baragallon got quickly to his feet and hurried around the edge of the fire toward the others.

He was only just bending down to awaken the first Elf when wild, hideous cries split the night air, and the earth began to thunder with a hundred iron-shot boots. Baragallon leapt upright, drawing his blade.

"Awake! Awake!" he cried, leaping forward just as the first line of Orcs broke into the camp, swinging clubs and wicked, notched scimitars. "The Enemy is upon us!"

The battle was short, but furious. The Orcs struck recklessly, driving themselves against the Elves' swords and spears, but taking as many of their foes with them as they could.

Baragallon once caught a glimpse of Cúvadhor standing against three large Orc-kin, and being driven back, his forearm bleeding heavily. But before Baragallon could go to his friend's aid, another joined in the fight, slaying two Orcs as Cúvadhor finished the third. The other was the youth, Baragallon realized in shock – Elrond.

None were unscathed when the skirmish was over. The survivors gathered about the fire to hear their lieutenant give orders, binding wounds and cleaning weapons as they listened.

"Malan, Cúvadhor, and Agorúan, see to the perimeter. The rest of you, pile the corpses to be burnt in the morn, and then get rest if you can. We must set out at dawn if we are to reach the rally point by dusk."

The Elves scattered to see to their appointed tasks. As they piled the bodies, Baragallon caught a glimpse of the youth that Cúvadhor had been railing against earlier. He was surprised to see the youth working alongside the others, blood – both scarlet and ebony, he noted – running down the right side of his face and splattered across his cheeks.

Baragallon caught sight of the youth one last time that night, shortly after the work of piling the corpses by the edge of the clearing had been completed. He watched in amazement as the youth crossed to his bedroll, lay down, wrapped himself tightly in his blanket, and promptly fell asleep once more, the blood still caked onto the side of his face.

_(Rivendell – T.A. 109)_

Elrond was, surprisingly enough, already in bed when Celebrían came in. He was lying sprawled out near the center of the mattress, taking up well more than half of his side of the bed as well as hers, and he didn't appear to be interested in moving any time soon. In fact, Celebrían realized with a graceful arch of an eyebrow, he looked to be fast asleep already.

Not that she truly blamed him. The past week had been more than a little hectic, and she knew he had gotten blessedly little sleep over the past four days. Still though…they hadn't been married more than a few months, and the novelty of sharing his bed had yet to wear off for her. It would seem such was not the case for her dear husband, however.

Celebrían slipped her robe off of her shoulders and hung it on the hook on the wall, then slid into bed. Leaning over she blew out the candle, and then slipped beneath the thin blanket.

"If you are going to insist on sleeping there," she grumbled, pressing herself against Elrond's side, "then the least you can do is share."

To Celebrían's surprise, Elrond turned over, and she felt an arm snake across her waist. He pulled her closer, enveloping her in his warmth and in his scent. Surprised, but not ill-pleased, Celebrían nestled her head against his shoulder, ear pressed against his bare chest.

"If this is your answer to my taking your side of the bed," he said softly, his voice rumbling in his chest, "then perhaps I should try it more often."

Celebrían grinned. "Just this once," she retorted. "Next time I will kick you out."

"Mmmh," was Elrond's reply. "If you say so, Beloved."

Celebrían opened her mouth to make another retort, but before she could utter a sound, she felt Elrond's lips closing over hers, and all other thought momentarily ground to a halt.

"Do not think you can always so easily win," Celebrían grumbled after they had at last broken the kiss. But she was smiling.

Elrond's eyes were dancing as he replied, "Oh, of course not. If I could, you would not be the same Celebrían that I fell in love with."

Celebrían chuckled, and deigned not to answer. Instead, she sighed and snuggled closer, her right arm draping over her husband's waist. "Good night, Meleth," she said softly as sleep began to steal over her.

"Good night, my love," Elrond replied.


	13. Day 13 - Elrond (Again)

**Rating/Warnings:** M. Rated M for highly disturbing images, graphic violence, and adult themes.  
(Okay honestly I'm terrible at judging, and I usually get annoyed with people rating their violence M, because I think it's usually just a really mature Teen. But I kinda disturbed myself writing it...And I'm like 99% sure this is the worst thing I've written to date. And Poisoned Star was pushing it. I mean, it's graphic in a different way...and okay I don't explicitly state everything...BUT. Anyway, I think it should probably be M. Because I'm pretty sure the story would be rated R if it was in film.

**Time frame:** 125 of the Third Age. The Twins were born in 130 of the Third Age.

**A/N:** Okay, I'm not really sure I'll remember everything I needed to say. But we'll try. Firstly, thank you SO much to everybody who has reviewed and favorited since yesterday! Seriously, you all mean the *world* to me right now, and you're so encouraging and lovely. Anji, Win Lockwood, Guest, Lorinand, Charlotte2May, Oleanne, TheHouseWitch, Fan, and nosmaeth - you all are the bomb. Wow, thank you SO very much! And guess what? We hit over 50 reviews last chapter! *dances around gleefully* Cake all around!

Okay secondly. When I started writing this headcanon, I had a loose idea of where I wanted it to go. And then it just kind of took off from there. Anyway, long story short, this also includes some of my foresight and healing headcanons as well (which I pretty much just decided on as I was writing this), and is more about sleep in general than nightmares. But, Elven sleep...eh yeah, I explain it.

Erm...okay, I can't think of anything else. Thank you again for all of your wonderful support, even if it's just lurking and reading! I hope you're enjoying it, and I'd love to hear from any and all of you sometime. To those of you who have already reviewed - still working on review responses. Thanks again. And enjoy!

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**Day 13 – Something about dreams or nightmares**

**Elrond**

The Elves do not sleep, not in the same way that humans do, and neither do they dream in the manner of the Men, Hobbits, or Dwarves. It was known among the Edain that to rest, the Elves need only to look upon something that is fair and beautiful, or else to travel the land of dreams. In the Common Tongue, that land of dreams was known as Reverie.

Reverie was a land of dreams – a dream world, if you will – in which there is an infinite number of paths. Each path belongs to an Elf – past, present, or future – and it is this path that they travel down to dream. In this way, the Eldar have a certain degree of control over their own dreams. This control is not absolute, however, despite what the Elves would have others think.

The truth of the matter is this:

Think of a path that winds away into the fog. You cannot see where the path leads to, but as you walk, you decide that you wish for the path to be winding between the trees of a grand forest – around you, you begin to see the blurred outlines of tree trunks beyond the mist. You then decide that you wish for the sun to shine – and a blaze of golden sunshine falls on you, burning away the mist. But you can still not make out the destination of the path, for it is now hidden by shadow beneath the trees.

Memory is also a key factor to the land of Elven dreams. Objects, places, people, and even specific events often reconstruct themselves within an Elf's dream. It is in this way, more than the act of physically staring upon a beautiful object, that Elves can obtain rest from gazing upon something fair. And again, the Elves have a certain degree of control over what they revisit, just as any person has the choice to go to the left or to the right in a fork in the road, or even to leave the path altogether.

Yet here, in the very heart of what makes Elven dreams so unique from any other living being, also lies the curse and the horror of it. For if bad memories reside alongside the good, then there will always be a fork in the path that will lead to the nightmare. And the stronger the fear associated with the memory, the stronger that dream becomes, just as the stronger the joy bound to a memory, the stronger that dream becomes.

Elven dreams are unlike others' dreams in another way as well. Whilst they have greater control over their dreams, and they gain their power from the dreams themselves rather than sleep, this very thing makes the dreams of the Elves all the more powerful, be they good or evil. This means that Elven dreams are far more vivid, personal, and intense than any Mortal's dreams, no matter what the dream is. If the dream is good, then this is a positive. But if the dream morphs into a nightmare…

Those with the gift of foresight are also gifted – or cursed – with a strange dream path. While most Elves' paths will run parallel to all others, or perhaps only cross once or twice in their long eternities, those who gifted with foresight have strangely convoluted dream paths. Their paths will double back, crossing and re-crossing time, from past to present and onward to future; paths that will merge with another Elf's path for some time before diverging again; paths, it seems, that will abruptly disappear, or will jump to another, or will cross two, three, even four paths all at once. Because of this, those gifted with foresight are often plagued by dreams, or part of dreams, that are not entirely their own, or that have not yet occurred. They see memories that will not be remembered for a hundred or a thousand years. And these dreams that are not their own, or will not be their own for many years to come, are infinitely more difficult to control than even the most terrifying of nightmares. And who now knows what is real…and what will never be?

Healers have a similar gift in regards to dreams, although theirs is much more relegated, and much easier to learn to control. Healers – or those Elves with the innate ability to connect to another's fëa – seem to have the ability to place their own fëar within the dreams of another. It is through this way that Healers are able to call back those who linger close to death, or whose minds have wandered far from their bodies.

(Unknown - T.A. 125)

Elrond opens his eyes, drawing in a deep breath as he does so. Warm light falls across his face, and the scent of green, growing things is thick upon the air, alongside the gentle tang of water, and the sweet perfume of budding flowers. Taking a second deep breath, Elrond looks around.

The sun is shining brightly down upon a vibrant meadow, filling the glade with a glorious golden glow. The grass is a rich, verdant green that is littered with multi-colored wildflowers and the water of the small pond at the far end of the glen glints merrily. The water lilies are in full bloom, and there's a faint splash as a frog leaps from a lily pad down into the water.

Elrond takes in the sight with a single, sweeping gaze, turning around as he does so, so as to be able to see the entirety of the glade, and then looks skyward. The peerless pastel sky gazes back unblinkingly, unmarred by even a single cloud. The sun shines down on his bare head and he squints slightly, canting a head to one side. He lowers his gaze.

"Where am I?" he muses quietly, his voice barely a murmur. Yet the sound carries through the air like a thunderclap, hanging there for a long moment like the dying echoes of a winded horn.

Elrond does not recognize this place – this beautiful, peaceful glad – and he is sure that, had he ever been there before, he would recall it, if only for its beauty. He takes a step forward, still in thought as he crosses toward the pond.

A flower sprouts from between the long grass just before him and he draws to a hasty halt so as not to tread on the new growth. With wide eyes, Elrond kneels beside the plant, awed as he watches the stem visibly grow upward. Tiny leaves pull away from the stem, unfurling and reaching up towards the sun. Bumps lengthen and sharpen, revealing themselves to be thorns. And there, at the top, the nob begins to swell, until suddenly the blossom bursts open, revealing a fully formed rose.

It is beautiful, this rose. Its petals are as rich and red as aged wine, and the green of stalk and leaf are as brilliant of a contrast as ruby is to emerald. It is perfect, with no visible flaw that Elrond can find to mar its pristine beauty.

Elrond reaches out with a gentle finger and reverently brushes it against the rose's petals.

The rose withers instantly, shriveling in on itself as it crumples inward, away from his touch. The edges of the leaves turn brown and brittle, then fall limp into strings of black mold and mildew; the petals curl and begin to lose their color, the rich red bleeding out of them, disappearing until only dead, bone white remains; the stem cracks and splits, wrinkling as it shrinks. And the roots – the roots twist up from the ground, as sickly pale as some dead thing crawling up from the grave, and they are long and sinuous and smooth, like worms.

The ground begins to bubble beneath the decaying rose. And then the rotted leaves and thorns begin to peel away in long strings, dangling down to the pocked earth. The rot touches the ground, and then sinks down into it, dissolving like water through a sieve. And a dark, sinuous line begins to grow outwards from the ruined rose, snaking beneath the soil, and leaving only a dark shadow in its wake.

Elrond scrambles back, away from the twisting root of darkness, only to feel the wind hit him full-force in the back. He gasps, the breath momentarily stolen away by the intensity of the wind. He glances up.

Riding the winds comes a massive bank of clouds, roiling and writhing and dark, oh so dark. They are storm clouds, and Elrond knows that they would bring nothing good. He jumps to his feet, still eyeing the clouds warily as they reach the far horizon, and then they begin to fill in, rolling toward him in a line so straight that it could have been cut on the edge of a sword. Elrond scrambles back another step, but he is far too late. The clouds are upon him, over him. And now the sun is blocked, the world cast into a dismal gray twilight.

Something begins to fall from the clouds, light and grey. At first Elrond thinks it is snow. But it is not. It is just a little too light and winsome to the air, fluttering more than falling. Flakes fall on Elrond's hair, then his lashes, and his shoulders. And then he realizes just what it is that is falling from the sky – ash.

Ash, burning ash. Ash that smells of sulfur, and smoke, and blood. It rains down, both black and sullen red, like a flame caught halfway between life and death. And it scorches and sears whatever it touches.

The grass is scorched, blackened to husks within seconds. The wildflowers sear, and those that do not burn to nothing are left a black and bleeding ruin. The water sizzles from the heat, steam rising as the lily pads are burned through, as the as coats the surface of the water with a thin grey film. Sizzle and hiss, and the water is lifting away, leaving in its wake only an empty, dry coffin.

The earth is blackened, seared and scorched by the drifting ash. And then Elrond looks down, and beneath his feet, visible beneath the soil, twisting and coiling in a sick parody of roots, is a writhing mass of dark cords that stretch outward. They grow, pulsing as they stretch toward the trees that surround the glade.

Elrond turns quickly, mind trying to comprehend what it is he is seeing. And even as he wonders, floundering, thoughts whirling, the black roots touch the healthy tree's roots.

Instantly the transformation begins. Black streaks creep up the tree trunks, swirling around together. Tiny, ebony vines burst out of the bark, growing rapidly. They twist and curl, twining about each other, stretching straight, then wrapping about the tree trunk, only to curl up again.

And the darkness spread, reaching up into the branches, staining the leaves. Staining everything until it was all black, and it seemed as if the light was being swallowed whole.

And them trees begin drip, their bark running down the trunks in black rivulets, the branches falling over limply to sink wetly against the ground. They are melting, melting as rot takes their wooden bones and turns them to black mold and mildew.

Then they come. Sneaking up. Appearing one by one, blinking into existence. All around, everywhere.

They eyes, the eyes, they are all around. Never blinking. Watching. Waiting. Waiting and breathing, pupils slit vertical, and irises flat. Like a snake. But not a snake, for what snake has blood red eyes? Eyes that never blink, never move. Just watch. Wait. Move. Move through the darkness, a disembodied head shifting in the absence of light. Drawing closer.

Elrond freezes, fear paralyzing his limbs.

Fight or flight?

He cannot fight, for he knows not what he it is he would battle. And perhaps he is too afraid to fight that which he does not know and does not understand. And so he flees.

Turning, he sprints from the raped meadow, pushing into the forest. The darkness closes in all around him, the light unable to penetrate this dark, cloying rot that pervades even the air, staining it dark and full of mold and decay. Arms up by his face, pushing away branches that ooze, vines that twist and stretch, blocking out the sight of the eyes to either side.

Scuttling. Something – a thousand somethings – scuttling behind. A hundred thousand feet. But not paws, or boots, or anything else Elrond can recognize. Scuttling, chittering, clacking.

He runs, tearing through the trees in the near blackness, his heightened senses just barely able to sense where a tree, or a branch, or a stone is before it is too late. But he cannot see the vines, the bushes, the brambles. Thorns tear at his hands, his face, his eyes, and stab into the flesh of his feet.

He does not pay heed, but simply runs on. Even as the vines tangle about his neck and try to strangle him, the rotten cords twining in his hair and about his wrists, slimy and sick. Dead.

He pulls free with a choked cry, tearing himself away. He runs on. Feet bleeding. Skin torn. Terror eating at his heart.

He glances over his shoulder just once, and there they are. The eyes. Ever following, and ever drawing closer. Unblinking, the light of the eyes bobbing in the darkness, unattached to a body. Just eyes, slit eyes that never blink. Eyes that breathe.

He stumbles, a hidden branch catching at his ravaged heel, which is bleeding freely already, and sending him crashing to the sodden ground. Something squishes beneath him as he lands, cushioning his fall. A mouthful of sick, rotting leaves, and something far fouler. Flesh, rotting flesh. He spits and heaves and scrambles away, trying to rise, scrubbing at his face with the back of his hand to rid it of the sticky mold and sucking ilk.

A stinging pain pricks at his right eye as something strikes it. He puts his hand up, pressing the heel of palm against it, closing his eyelid. He feels something warm and wet against his palm. And then the feel of his eye moving, wriggling – something burrowing and tunneling through his eye. Twisting and wriggling like a thousand meal worms, chewing, digging. Digging toward his brain.

A scream, and he realizes it is his own as he jerks his hand away and opens his eye. But he can't see anything out of his right eye. Everything is black and empty, a dizzying hole. And still the wriggling, the burrowing.

He screams again, and he is clawing at his eye, tearing it out of the socket. Screaming, blood-curdling and agonized, and he can feel blood pouring down his face as he claws and tears, digging out his own eye with his fingers.

He crushes the eyeball on the ground, grinding it with his heel. And out from the mashed pulp writhes a hundred thousand white worms, twisting and contorting around each other like a hundred thousand parasites.

He staggers away, still moaning, one hand going to his ruined eye. The blood is still flowing. Hopefully it will wash away any worms that had latched onto the socket.

And now he's running again, staggering, tripping. A tree looms up in front of him out of nowhere and he slams into it. But it does not truly hurt, for the wood is so rotten and decayed that it simply bends beneath his weight, oozing fluid as it is crushed.

Onward at a staggering run, dodging every object that he sees in front of him, imagined or not. But now the vines are reaching down, and he is not fast enough or strong enough to pull himself away from them. They twine about his ankles and wrists like lovers, tightening their sinuous, slippery hold.

More and more vines around his body. Tendrils twist up his legs, pressed against his skin beneath his breeches. Around his waist and chest and arms to hold him still. Around his neck, although not taught. Not yet.

And then as one the vines pounce, penetrating deep into him. And he writhes as the sick, rotting things force their way into his body. And he screams. Only he cannot scream, for the vines are in his throat, and around his throat. Crushing and ripping apart all at once.

And above it all chittering. Chittering as eyes descend from above, swarming down toward the prisoner trapped on the rotting forest floor. Pincers clacking, and red eyes gleaming. Like a rippling sea they came, black and smooth

And legs, so many legs.

And gleaming white webs…

"Elrond. Elrond!"

Someone was screaming. Someone else, not the one who was speaking, who was calling…

That strange, yet achingly beautiful voice called to him. It was familiar, oh so familiar… Something stirred within him. He struggled, trying to remember. _Who did that voice belong to?_ He knew the voice, knew she who it belonged to. He _loved_ her…

The world fractured, and then shattered around him.

The screams died on Elrond's lips as he sat bolt upright, gasping and panting for air. For a long moment he couldn't seem to remember where he was, and he gazed around frantically. Irrational fear prickled through his body, warming his muscles and sending his mind into high alert.

_Darkened roots; twisting vines; chittering, and blood red eyes. And webs, so many webs…_

Elrond gasped, wrenching himself away from the flashes. He glanced around, reassuring himself that there were no dark vines, or eyes, or webs. Nothing. Just the normal walls of his and Celebrían's room.

"-ond. –lrond. Elrond." Elrond turned, eyes wide and still breathing heavily. His fists were clenched in his lap, he realized a moment later, and his arms were shaking from the tension of holding them so tight. _All_ of him was shaking actually, come to think of it. Cold sweat trickled down the back of his neck, dampening his sleep shirt. "Elrond, are you well?" It was Celebrían, and she was watching him with a mixture of fear and concern.

"I-" Elrond grated, and then coughed. His throat felt as if he hadn't drunk for days. He tried to moisten his mouth, but to little avail, and coughed again.

"Water?" Celebrían asked, and Elrond nodded mutely. Celebrían rose quickly and, crossing to the small pewter jug standing on a small table against the far wall, she poured Elrond a cup of water. She handed it to him, and then settled down beside him once more as he drained the cup.

Wordlessly, Elrond put the cup down on his nightstand, pushing it back so that it would not accidentally get knocked off of the edge. Warmth pressed in against his side, and Elrond turned. He smiled slightly – barely more than a twitch of the lips, to be honest, although that was about as much as he could manage at the moment – and then pulled Celebrían close, wrapping his arms around her.

"I did not mean to frighten you," he said softly. He could still detect a rasp in his voice, and Elrond frowned. Just how long had he been screaming for? A shudder wracked his body as his mind presented unwanted images and memories from his dream.

"Oh, Elrond," Celebrían murmured, and then turned and buried her head in his shoulder. She was shaking too. And then Elrond realized she was crying.

"Here now," Elrond murmured, hugging her close and stroking her hair softly. "All is well."

"No, it is not." Celebrían abruptly pulled away from Elrond, and she glared at him savagely. "No, all is not well," she hissed, "and do not try to tell me that again, Elrond Eärendilion."

"It was a nightmare, Brí," Elrond said quietly, and once again was forced to suppress a shudder.

Celebrían shook her head and glared again. "That is precisely what I am saying. Elrond, it took me _five_ _minutes_ to awaken you, and you were thrashing and screaming the entire time. That was no ordinary nightmare, Elrond. And you and I both know it."

Elrond sighed, and then nodded, keeping his hands clasped tightly in his lap where they had fallen after his wife had pulled away. "Before you ask, however," he said, cutting in over her, "I will not speak of it tonight. Glorfindel returns on the morrow. I will speak of it with him then." Celebrían's eyes flashed. "No, Meleth," he whispered. "Do not ask that of me."

"Ask what of you?" Celebrían questioned.

"Ask me to tell you of what I saw," Elrond replied tiredly. "I will not…I cannot. Not now. Perhaps given time…" he trailed off, and then resolutely turned his gaze upwards, focusing on the scrollwork around the doorframe on the other side of the room.

It was Celebrían's turn to sigh, and Elrond knew he had won. "Oh, Beloved," she murmured, and scooted close once more. Twining her arms around his waist, she held him close. Twisting around, Elrond reciprocated the gesture. "I am sorry," she told him quietly. "I was just...so afraid, and…"

"I know," Elrond said, silencing her. "You need not explain yourself to me."

Celebrían bit her lip, and then stood slowly, pulling out of Elrond's embrace. She did not release his hand, however, when she reached out and seized his fingers. "Come," she urged. He stood, and then walked beside her as they walked toward the door. "I think that a cup of chamomile tea and a walk in the gardens will do us both good," she announced, snatching a light robe from the back of a chair, and slipping it on.

"I agree," Elrond replied.

Their fingers laced together once more, the two exited their rooms. They did not return that night.


	14. Day 14 - Elrond (Yet Again)

**Rating/Warning:** K. None.

**Time frame:** Year 37 of the Second Age. Elros left for Numenor in year 32, so 5 years before this story takes place.

**A/N:** So originally, this was not my idea for this prompt at all. But then lately I've had a series of rather sad/creepy/disturbing ones, and I thought this needed a bit of humor. So even though I don't usually write humor, I gave it a go. So then I had no idea what to do, so I went and asked a couple of friends. And one of my friends just said "ducks." So I just kind of ran with that. Because of that, though, this whole thing might never come up again. It probably will...but it might not. We'll just have to wait and see.

Thank you a thousand times to all of you wonderful people who reviewed last chapter! Lorinand, Reader, Charlotte2May, TheHouseWitch, nosmaeth, and Dreamflower, you are very awesome people. Thank you! And also huge thanks to all who have favorited and/or alerted, and I'm glad you're enjoying! To all of my lurkers, I hope that you are enjoying reading, and I'd love to hear from you at some point. Most importantly though, enjoy.

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**Day 14 – Something about phobias**

**Elrond**

If there was one thing in the world that Elrond was positively terrified of…it was ducks.

He had no reason for such an odd fear. No duck had ever done anything to him – bit him, charged him, or even quacked at him – and he could eat duck without batting an eye. But when they were alive, waddling around and making that terrible honking sound…

Few knew about Elrond's fear of the brightly colored aquatic birds, for he was able to hide his fear well. But the fear was still there, numbing him and making his hands go cold, causing him to shake ever so slightly, but for the most part he was able to keep a handle on his emotion for long enough to excuse himself from whatever company he was in, and flee with elegance. Sometimes. Not always.

Glorfindel and Gil-galad were two of those who knew about this strange phobia, and they would tease Elrond mercilessly for it. Elrond took it all in good stride, usually simply deigning to ignore them, or on occasion shooting them a withering glare.

_(Mithlond – S.A. 37)_

The gardens were beautiful at that time of year. The flowers were in full bloom, the trees laden with thick, green leaves, and the air smelled of the first traces of summer and the last of spring. The burble of water running in a small brook just out of sight behind the trees, accompanied the gentle sea breeze that stirred the air.

Gil-galad, Elrond, and three other lesser nobles strolled amiably down the garden path, talking quietly and admiring the flowers. They rounded a bend, and the garden hedge opened out into a small, grassy knoll, the path twisting around the edge and then into the trees on the far side of the well-manicured glade. Wildflowers dotted the verdant grass, and near the center of the glade was a shallow pond. Flowers and reeds grew at the water's edge, and the croak of frogs joined the rustling and intermittent quacking of ducks to form a peaceful sort of hum.

Elrond stopped abruptly, eyeing the ducks that were bustling about the pond. Three were in the water, bobbing their heads beneath the waves, their tails wriggling as they snatched for food. Two more were waddling around the muddy edge, ruffling their feathers, and watching each other warily.

Gil-galad turned, sensing that Elrond had fallen back. "Elrond, are you coming?" he asked pointedly.

"Uh…" Elrond stammered, glancing over at Gil-galad before his eyes returned to the ducks. "Yes," he replied. He didn't move.

By now the other three courtiers had noticed Elrond's odd behavior as well, and turned to look at the young peredhel with varying degrees of confusion. Gil-galad sighed, then retraced his steps to the mouth of the path, and lay a hand on Elrond's shoulder. Elrond was quivering, Gil-galad noted with surprise.

"Elrond, are you well?" Gil-galad asked, softly this time so that the others could not hear.

"What? Oh, yes," Elrond said, trying to sound reassuring. He failed miserably, and the smile that he gave Ereinion was both too wide and falsely bright. "I am well, no worries. I am coming."

"All right then," Gil-galad said with a frown, now very thoroughly confused. He dropped his hand from Elrond's shoulder, and then turned back to the other courtiers. "Have any of you seen the new ship that Círdan is building?" he asked, going back up the path.

Elrond took a deep breath, and then took a hesitant step forward, out into the meadow…and closer to the ducks. His eyes remained locked on their feathered bodies, although his head began to hurt from watching all five birds at once so intensely. Carefully, without taking his eyes off of the ducks, he began to walk up the path toward the others, trying to control his shaking.

"Elrond, how about you?" Aeleg, the youngest of the courtiers as well as the only ellon (besides Elrond and Gil-galad, of course) asked.

"What?" Elrond grimaced at the sound of his voice – high-pitched and strained. He cleared his throat, and then tried again. "My apologies, what are you speaking of?" He was relieved to hear that it sounded a little more normal.

Aeleg looked at him oddly, then repeated his question. "The new ship that Lord Círdan is building – have you seen it?"

"Oh, yes," Elrond replied distractedly. "I helped him some of the measure-" a duck quacked and Elrond jumped, "-ments in fact," he finished.

"Elrond, are you sure you are well?" Gil-galad asked in concern.

"Just peachy," Elrond retorted. "Can we walk any faster?"

They were nearly to the trees on the far side of the glade when it happened. Without warning, one of the ducks on the edge of the pond took off, flapping its wings with a flurry of wind. Elrond flinched, jumping away, and neatly pulling Gil-galad between himself and the flying beast.

"Elrond, what…?"

The duck landed in front of the small group, quacking as it politely asked if they had any food for it.

Elrond leapt back with a very un-warrior-like yelp, and promptly tripped over his own feet. He fell on his back, but almost instantly he was scrambling backwards, putting as much distance between himself and the duck as he could. The duck quacked, and then turned to look directly at him.

"Get it away from me!" he shouted. "GIL-GALAD!" he bellowed, when no one made a move, only watched in shock as Eärendil's son cowered away from the small, and perfectly harmless bird.

Gil-galad suddenly burst out laughing, throwing his head back. He gasped, fighting the tears that threatened to stream down his cheeks, and clutching at his sides. The other courtiers simply looked on in shock and confusion, torn between chuckling themselves, or simply staying out of the way of the cousins. They wisely chose the latter option.

"THIS IS NOT FUNNY!" Elrond bellowed, scooting back another inch as the duck waddled toward him, opening its bill to quack again. "GIL-GALAD, THIS IS NOT FUNNY."

"Yes….yes it is," Gil-galad gasped, barely able to contain his laughter for long enough to choke out the sentence. "Your face…"

"JUST GET IT AWAY FROM ME!" he screamed, still sitting helplessly on the ground and watching the baffled duck as it took another step closer.

With one final laugh, Gil-galad stepped forward, shooing the duck away. "We have nothing for you. Now go on, before you give my cousin a heart attack."

With a final, disgruntled quack, the duck took off again. It flew right over Elrond's head, just barely avoiding hitting him. Elrond shrieked and ducked, covering his head with his arms.

When the duck was gone, Gil-galad started laughing again. "Don't tell me, Elrond," he gasped, "you're terrified of ducks?"

Elrond picked himself up off of the ground, dusting himself off and looking thoroughly embarrassed and put out. "Yes, I'm terrified of ducks," Elrond replied churlishly. Gil-galad started laughing again. "It's just…their eyes, and the way they move, and…"

"Yet you have no qualms with swans or seagulls," Gil-galad pointed out.

"Well no. But…They're not ducks!" Elrond protested. Gil-galad only laughed all the harder. "Forget it," the peredhel growled.

Turning to the other courtiers, Elrond bowed slightly. "My apologies that you had to witness that," he said, then turned to Gil-galad. "Your majesty." He bowed low, even as Gil-galad still strove to regain his composure. With that, Elrond turned on his heel and stalked back to the palace. Of course, he took the long way around the glen, well out of sight of the duck pond.

There was a knock at Elrond's door. He bade them enter, and Gil-galad stepped into the room, closing the door behind himself.

"I came to apologize for my actions earlier," he said. "You truly were afraid, and I should not have treated your fear so lightly."

Elrond sighed, and then stood up from behind his desk. "No need to apologize, my lord," he said formally. "If anything, I should be the one doing so. My actions…"

"You were afraid," Gil-galad said lightly. "Fear makes a person do strange things."

"I still should not have addressed you as I did, especially in the presence of others," he pressed, a light blush coloring his cheeks.

Gil-galad snorted inelegantly. "Elrond, you are my cousin. You have the right to address me as such if you like."

"You are also my king," Elrond pointed out.

"You are right, I am your king," Gil-galad said brightly. "And as such, I am telling you that you can address me as such all you like." Elrond frowned and shook his head, but he did not say anything. "Just…kindly refrain from screaming during the banquet next week – I have heard we are having roast duck as the main course."

Elrond buried his face in his hands. "I am never going to live this down, am I?" he asked, voice muffled by his hands.

"Most certainly not," Gil-galad grinned. "Now come to dinner. Or else I'll let the _ducks_ loose on you," he threatened. Elrond sighed, but followed Gil-galad nonetheless as he led the way down to the dining hall.

And if you're wondering…yes, Elrond had to suffer through Gil-galad's duck jokes for the rest of the night.

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**A/N II**: Okay, just to give you all a heads up, I'm going out of town on Sunday. That means I have no idea when my next headcanon will be posted. It could be tomorrow, but that really depends on how much stuff I have to do to get ready. It may be Monday after we get there. It may be later. I'm staying with the loverly Mirnava, so I'll have internet and possibly writing time, but it's getting into the college tour season of life for me, so I'll be busy going and around and actually doing stuff while I'm gone, not just vacationing. So yeah...Just thought I should let you all know!

Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed! (I'd also love it if you reviewed *nudge*) Have a wonderful weekend!


	15. Day 15 - Elros

**Rating/Warnings:** K+ for character death and angst.

**Time frame:** 422 of the Second Age.

**A/N:** Hello all! I have finally returned from the land of the dead (er, I mean absent...). I am so very sorry about the long wait. I intended for it to only be a week interim, but then Real Life decided to get in the way. For example, for the last two weeks I have had band every day, and have literally had the energy to pretty much eat, shower, and sleep afterwards, with a tiny dash of watching TV with my ada and naneth. Sooo yeah.

Anyway, thank you so, so, SO very much to all of you wonderful and amazing people who reviewed since I updated last! Jabberwocki, Charlotte2May, Oleanne, TheHouseWitch, Reader, Neiroel, Lorinand, nosmaeth, Kellen, 5SectoThrowItFB, Guest, Tierney Greyleaf, Valaina Lalaith, Croockneck, and Rangerfan58, you all are simply superb and wonderful. And holy macaroons, I'm only just now seeing how many of you reviewed last chapter. Holy macaroni...I think I may be dying a little bit right now. That's a good thing though! I'm kind of just in shock...Wow guys, all of your support is crazy and awesome and amazing and thank you so much! (And yes, I'm still working my way through reviews. Definitely not as fast as I could, but I AM working on it...expect some replies tomorrow, hopefully). But yeah, wow. And to all of you who have favorited and/or alerted, my many thanks to you as well! I am very happy to hear/see that you are enjoying the story. And to all of you lurkers out there, who are just reading...well, I hope that you're enjoying as well! I'd positively love to hear from each and every one of you, even just to tell me what you think of it! Most importantly, however, is that I hope that you enjoy the chapter.  


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**Day 15 – Something that makes you weep tears unnumbered**

**Elros**

Elrond was present when Elros died. Elros had sensed that his time was coming, and so he sent for his twin. He had spent many long weeks debating whether or not he should even inform Elrond – perhaps leave a letter for him instead – for Elros knew that his death would sorely damage his twin's already fractured heart. At the end, however, Elros had relented and sent for his brother – whether because he thought that Elrond should be there, or more likely (and far more selfishly) because he wanted to see his twin one final time.

And Elrond came. Elros had been unsure if he would, and perhaps some part of him had hoped that his brother would refuse his summons – that Elrond would do the wise thing, and would forsake him in those last days, and in that way would help shield his heart from the shattering blow of Elros's death. But Elrond did not refuse.

Círdan accompanied Elrond, for he had been friends with Elros, and had mentored the king in his youth. Elros was glad of that, and not only because he was glad to see his mentor one last time. For he felt as if Círdan would be one of the few who would be able to help his brother after his death.

Elros passed within a week of Elrond's arrival on Númenor.

There is little spoken of the day that Elros died. What little is known was told by his children, but none were with him when he passed, for he bade them depart ere his soul forsook his body. Elrond alone remained, and what words were spoken in those few short moments remain a mystery and a secret unto the ends of time.

Elrond emerged, dry-eyed and stiff, less than an hour after Elros had bade his children depart. None knew the precise moment that Elros had died – save Elrond – and none asked. It was only then, after Elrond had departed and disappeared down the hall, that Vardamir and his siblings entered the room to mourn their father.

Elrond and Círdan remained on Númenor for only three days after Elros's death. Initially, the intent had been to stay until Vardamir's coronation, however when he made it known that he intended to abdicate immediately upon receiving the crown, it was decided (by both parties) that the Elven delegation would return for Amandil's coronation alone.

There was more to the decision than political reasoning, however. Círdan, and of Elros's children especially Tindómiel, were concerned for Elrond. They all had expected some form of grief, but that which came worried them greatly.

Upon walking from the room, Elrond seemed to no longer himself. He was cold and emotionless. There was no spark in his eyes, no laughter, no warmth of any kind. He moved with strength, but without purpose, as if there was nothing but emptiness within him. He did not speak, he ate little, and he slept even less. Círdan suspected that it was mostly due to the shock of the shattering of their twin bond – no bond, no matter how strong, could survive one half departing beyond the Circles of the World, if the other remained. And Elrond and Elros's bond had been strong, and something the likes of which Círdan neither comprehended, nor had even begun to fathom.

Círdan brought Elrond home swiftly, hoping that distancing the young Peredhel physically from his brother's death would help him to recover from the shock. And for a few short days, it seemed as if it had helped, for it seemed that Elrond began to come out of his shock, although slowly, and in only short, lucid moments. It was debated whether or not this was a step in the right direction, however, for in those moments, Elrond seemed to go all but insane. It began to be wondered just what an effect the death of his twin had had on his fëa, and some feared that Elrond would never recover from the trauma.

Then one night, Elrond disappeared with hardly a trace. His horse was gone, as was his sword and his saddlebags, but there was no trace nor clue to indicate where he had gone. Search parties were sent after him, but he had been trained far too well, and not even the most skilled of the hounds could follow his trail beyond a half dozen miles into the wilderness. He did not _want _to be found.

There is little known of the following seven weeks. Reports began to come from villages, scouts, and patrols of a hunter that was moving through the mountains. Whole clans of Orcs were found slaughtered, packs of Wargs piled and burned, and even three slain Trolls. Gil-galad and Círdan had their suspicions as to who the near-mythical "Hunter" was, but they spoke to no one of the matter.

Seven weeks later, Elrond rode into Mithlond, sound of mind, and although still grieving, no longer blinded by his pain. When he was questioned concerning his numerous injuries, he said only that he had been harmed in a rock fall, and had been found by an Edain hunting party. They had taken him to their village, and had cared for him until he could travel again.

And if the healers were skilled enough to know that most of his wounds had been dealt by blades, and his burns by Troll blood, they said nothing, save perhaps to the king.

(Númenor – S.A. 422)

A grey-eyed shadow clung to the wall, hidden from the light that streamed in through the open window. It watched, detached and distant, as the room before it bustled with activity – maids hurrying to and fro, menservants carrying boxes or trays, guardsmen bowing. Four nobles, all dressed in darkly embroidered finery sitting beside a beautifully upholstered couch, which sat beside the windows, through which the gentle breeze and the late afternoon sun alike could enter. The chirp of birds sounded afar off in the distance, the cheerful sound carried on the avenues of the air as it whispered in through the wooden frames. And there, lying upon the couch, was an old man, whose black hair had long since silvered, until the silken locks were nearly the same shade as his eyes. He smiled, but it was a tired gesture, and although he sat regally, his back was propped against a number of pillows, and a blanket had been spread over his legs, despite the mildness of the weather.

Slowly, the room began to empty, until only the four nobles, the man upon the couch, and the grey-eyed shadow remained. There was silence for a long moment. And then the man upon the couch gave a sigh, and he turned to regard the four nobles.

"My children," he murmured, and reached out a hand. The eldest – a man whose hair had already begun to silver at his temples, and whose beard sported nearly as much grey as it did black – grasped the old king's hand.

"We are here, Father," Tindómiel, the elder of his daughters said softly, her rich voice musical, yet soft. She smiled at him, and she reached out to hold to his other hand.

"So at last, the time has come," the old man said. He gazed at each of his children in turn, fixing them with the full weight of his silver gaze. "Do not mourn long, for this is right. We shall see each other again, before the end of this Age." He smiled then, a crooked sort of smile – the kind that a trickster is wont to flash, yet on him somehow looked regal, and refined.

The old king leaned forward, and kissed his eldest son upon the brow. "May the blessing of Eru, and of the Valar guide you, my son," he said. And with that he took from his head the crown – small and light, and one that a king would wear on any day but a High day, or a holy day – and he placed it on Vardamir's head. "Rule well, my son, and do not forget the lessons of your youth." Vardamir bowed his head, and kissed his father's hand.

"Tindómiel, my daughter," the king said, turning next to the woman who had held his other hand. He touched her cheek, and then wiped away a tear. "Manwendil, Atanalcar, my sons." He turned to his younger children, although even they were more than full-grown. "I love you well, my children. Fear not to weep, for tears heal the heart and soul. And this is only a farewell for a short time." Tindómiel reached out and touched her father's cheek, brushing away a tear of his own, and she nodded, smiling, although her eyes gleamed with unshed tears.

"And now, my children, it is time I think for you to go," the king said. They nodded mutely, and standing, each kissed him once upon the brow, and then they filed out of the room. Atanalcar shut the door softly behind him, the latch clicking into place quietly.

The grey-eyed shadow stepped away from the wall, and at last crossed toward the couch. The old king looked up, and he smiled his crooked grin when his eyes met the other's. The once-shadow, now bathed in glorious golden sunlight, knelt beside the couch, and reaching out he took the king's weathered hand in his.

"You should not look so mournful, brother," Elros said, gripping Elrond's hand tightly. "Look at me?" Elrond did not look up.

"And what words of comfort do you have to give to me?" Elrond asked. He was surprised at the bitterness that he heard in his own words. "Forgive me, brother," he said quickly. "I…"

"No, El," Elros cut in. His use of their childhood nickname caused Elrond to look up, even when Elros's asking had not. "There is no need for us to waste our time with needless apologies. I understand." Elros's smile returned, although this time it was far less crooked, and there was a weight of sorrow to it. "I understand you better than even you do, sometimes."

Elrond laughed, although he could feel his eyes sting with unshed tears. "You do at that. And who will be able to tell me what I don't understand about myself now?" he asked, although this time there was little anger in his tone.

Elros laughed. "You will have to find yourself a wife, I suppose. It is a shame, really, that I never got to see you married." Elrond merely shook his head, and after a moment, Elros sobered as well.

"Elrond…" Elros trailed off, his voice, so much thinner than it had been all those years ago in Himring, yet still strong.

"No, El," Elrond said, looking up once more. "There is no need for us to waste our time with needless apologies. I understand." He sounded tired, and sorrowful. And deep, deep down, hidden beneath all else, he sounded afraid. "This was your fate, for whatever reason."

"I only wish that it would not separate us," Elros said softly. "That is my one regret."

"I will say the same to you as I did to my children," Elros said after a long moment of silence.

"And what is that?" Elrond asked.

"It is no sin to weep. You know as well as I that tears are a balm to the soul." Elrond looked away. "Do not hold your sorrow in, brother," Elros added. "It will be the death and the undoing of you."

"And when did my foolish, stubborn, brash brother come to be the wise one?" Elrond quipped, although there was no bite to his words.

Elros smiled. "Since I became an old man. Age gives you a new insight into many things."

"Yes, the great age difference of twenty minutes," Elrond retorted. Still, his heart did not sound as if it was in his teasing; rather, it sounded as if he was attempting to grasp at threads, trying to rebuild a bridge out straw that was already burning on the other side.

"You will know what I mean when you come to it," Elros replied. He suddenly sounded impossibly tired.

"Elrond, brother," Elrond's eyes met his twin's, the one physical feature that had remained identical no matter how much Elros aged, "I love you. There is nothing in this world, or beyond this world, that can change that. You are my other half." Elros smiled. "My better half, I dare say." Elrond's eyes stung impossibly, and he felt a hot tear spill out of the corner of his right eye, to drip down his cheek. Elros reached out and wiped it away.

"Farewell, brother."

Pain, the likes of which Elrond had never imagined possible – greater even than the agony of fire that had rent his soul on the day that they had proclaimed their Choice – pierced him down to the very core of his being. He could not speak, could not cry out. And then the agony was gone, dead within the space of a single second. But something else seemed to have died with the pain, some portion of _himself_. It felt as if there was a hole in his chest; a fracture in his soul; some sliver of his _being _missing. It hurt, and yet in the same instant, it could not hurt, for it was a void. Boundless, immeasurable, and untraversable.

Elros's hand fell away from Elrond's cheek to flop limply to the sofa's cushions. The hand that Elrond held went slack, the fingers losing their tight grip. Elros's head lolled back against the cushions, and his eyes slid out of focus. And his smile – the final smile he had graced his little brother with, the smile that had for so many years promised safety, and warmth, and comfort, and assurance – seemed to somehow still, and grow cold.

For a long moment, there was only silence. And then came the sound of weeping as Elrond doubled over, his brother's slack hand still clasped in his as he buried his face in the cushions beside his brother's unmoving chest.


End file.
